Dispatches from the middle of nowhere - Part 1

soon after sunrise, a woman placed 

a bag with fresh bread on our doorstep

(the self-effacing hospitality 

of granite-hard, rugged hands)

morning is a windswept sun-drenched trek

like monks, in the afternoon we retire 

to the scriptorium, immerse ourselves 

in shade & sharpen our quills

I suppose no one ever told starlings 

they shouldn’t disturb writers at work

restless on the ruins 

of the ancient jousting ring 

(knights all dust now)

invisible cheeky fools loop: 

babble, mock & whistle 

impersonate 

every other bird 

(too wise to be 

singing now)

& inevitably 

make me 

chuckle

mid-sentence 

I forget my own words

(do they even matter here?) 

& just listen 

to their ramblings 

starlings don’t speak of storms

brooding beyond these granite hills

it’s safe to say they know no ghosts 

(bleeding faded ink on the page)

& fear nothing beneath their wings

but the shadow

of a peregrine

▪️▪️▪️

143.1 (Photo taken by me)