I used to live by the sea. The mornings would begin with soft, milky light creeping over the waves, before I retreated indoors to offices with no windows and terrible temperature regulation. Sometimes, not often, I would remember the sky, the vast expanse of it that existed outside of the four walls that closed me in. I would leave a little early, say 4pm, and head out, seeking the final streams of light before the Earth turned away from the sun and the darkness settled in.
The walk on the beach would be cold, a biting wind sweeping across the pebbles, a sharp rush of icy water towards the shoreline. Winter was a time of year of bright skies. There would be pinks and yellows and oranges all dancing together across the vastness of above, basking in a golden glow. It would be empty, no playing children or dogs bounding across the pebbles in the cold. I would be alone.
I would sit and breathe in the cool air, filling my lungs, relishing the chill in my bones. The cold makes me feel alive.
In the distance was an old pier, burnt down many years ago. What stands still is the carcas, an angular skeleton that rises from the water, worn away by the passage of time. It marks the horizon and says, I am here, you are here, in this open expanse of sea, this is where we are. I am grounded by it, present in this life I am living by the water.
As the sun set further, the birds started to fly. They nest in the pier, numbers swelling as they fly south from the tundras of the north, stopping here on their journey towards the equator. They would rise, a plume of birds moving skyward, careening in giant loops against the fiery sky. The murmuration would be mesmerising; a colossal, living entity in its own right, a beating heart that they collectively inhabit.
After, I would come home and drink tea. Partly for the comfort, and partly to warm my hands. The imagine would be burnt into my brain, the twist of the column around the pier, the sharp upward turn when it reached the horizon line. The starlings stay for the winter, roosting in the pier. I watch them often, a slice of magic in the quiet of the cold.
Eventually, they fly home. I miss them.
