Long Winding Roads are Scenic and Worth the Effort

Here it is Sunday morning, the week before Christmas. For those of you who know me and are a relation, jam is in the mail. For those of you who would like a jar of preserves, send me your current address and I will put a package in the post for you. If I am feeling particularly generous I may include a spoon so that you can stand in the sun, somewhere far away from here, with a mason jar in your left hand, a stainless steel spoon in the right, eating the fruits of this season thinking of me. These days I circle in closer to myself; I feel the touch of the starlings wings in my ear as their murmurations escalate into pulsing sculptures of light and silence, the air is redistributed and catches me up into the wind before settling me softly back below the oak that has lost most of its leaves, the one by the gully that needs to have the girder removed, you've seen it, you know. I move towards myself. Close to the surface, tears in moments taken alone course down my cheeks, cut through the dirt, oil, manure. Laughter fills my heart as I remember the touch of starlight on my soul.