With a dishevelled ruffle and a backwards smile, she roused at the cognisance of her wings. Wasted seasons, manacled to the manipulative malcontent dictating her sensory self. At last muted by the primordial meditation of ancestors’ imprints. With a docile stirring she unleashed herself – psychically primed to transmutate the psyche. She knew – recalled here, in her stillest memory – her place in space.
A shrill insurgence of the keenest heart commanded her not-so-elusive shake off. Gasping a thunderous roar, intuitively she knew she was of this world – meant to sail poised above it – but naught again be ensnared by it.
Crone’s currents spewing secrets, so the little bird pledged a worldly immersion; submission to the splendors of creation and its cyclical intercepting inceptions.
Inclined to clear herself of the pebbled precipice and its associating ascending chance, she whistled herself off, strewn about the channelling chants of the northern gale.