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I feel transparent like water or air, more like a conduit through which the years can pass than something solid or opaque. I am a sieve of time, and as the years filter through, my hair grows ever more silver, the magical grey of cronehood. I wear my silver hair like a mantle, and the years wash through me, swirling like eddies through my consciousness, carrying thoughts and memories aloft like ravens in the wind.
Yesterday, I saw two crows harrying a great horned owl outside the train station. The owl perched atop a lightpost, its feathers glowing against the afternoon sky, and the crows dipped again and again, pummelling their sworn enemy with wings and voice. I walked across the street for a better look at this auspicious sight, but I am no augur, and the owl flew away as the wind ruffled my hair.
Happy Gregorian New Year.
Yesterday, I saw two crows harrying a great horned owl outside the train station. The owl perched atop a lightpost, its feathers glowing against the afternoon sky, and the crows dipped again and again, pummelling their sworn enemy with wings and voice. I walked across the street for a better look at this auspicious sight, but I am no augur, and the owl flew away as the wind ruffled my hair.
Happy Gregorian New Year.
