Sparrows, Hope, And Rules
Potentially the last newsletter before the baby arrives...
This is a season of storm. The birds know it, they are frantic, feeding as quickly as they can before vanishing from sight as the sky drops into the valley and all is obscured by torrent. To all sides the mountains echo with static boom and crunch and light punches from above, sudden winds ripping leaves from the grape vine, tearing them from the wisteria and cherry. Throughout it all, the tall bamboo screen which sits between us and the neighbour is alive with sparrows, clinging to each stem as they thrash and wave.
At dusk, the sky remains low, the light eerie and wonder-filled. I swear I can see the charged air, witness elemental forces mixed in with ghosts carried by cloud and wind.