Field notes from my bed

In the beak of a crow

“What about all the stuff you can’t control?” she asks.

What about it?

I feel everything, and sometimes that is just too much.

I feel it all, as if I’m flying aloft in the beak of a crow.

I am the soft thud of the bassline, the light dancing on the lip of the wave. I hover in cracks and crevices … held in bottles and bones.

I am coo and chortle, swift and swallow, labouring love.

I swell on sea-scudding squalls … drift in soft summer hazes … dancing in slow seductive shimmies.

I thrum in the steady heartbeat, the slow swish of blood … the kiss of cool evening breeze, the face of a friend, the tender vibration of soft summer rain meeting the pane … all wrapped in mellow hues, held, tickled, stung, dropped …

I feel it all, even the spaces in between, and it is exquisite … and sometimes, too much.

If you can only study one thing in life, study love

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