The Calling Gull Of Aquinnah

The calling gull leaves her nest her wild magic cleaves the nimbus. An avian aerialist suspended aloft she sails on tapered ribbons of cirrus silk, ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings. A wind witch, she defies and defines the w - i - n - d… a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt in union with the sea’s connection to land and air. She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew; my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus. She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration! She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation. I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach. I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise. An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath. In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk, white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet. From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost. My heart, akin to a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn. I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge. Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle, cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes. The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest. My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.