Everything out the backdoor is wingbeats and white-capped water. There’s the steady song of snow geese in the evening darkness rising and falling between breaths – something I’d pen down as “avian thunder.”
Home consists of choppy, grey ripples and muddy banks marred with deer trails. I crouch by those tiny rivers of bare earth, cleaved by hooves, and wonder: Are you a mother?
I’d like to think one day a doe will cross my path and see it in my eyes: the welcoming. The gentle strum of some forgotten chord when woman and beast met in forests glazed with winter and went about their way.
When both sets of our brown eyes rise to the sky, we’d listen for wingbeats and find our paths back home.
📷 :: 8-29-2018 ©️ Pearl Bayou