I play my flute at night in the cisterns, I hope no one hears but the entities
that live in the echoes and under the waves. It sings back to me, washes over me, envelops me,
with much more warmth than the island really has to offer. All is still.
And I thank the swans for sharing their bathing spot with me this summer,
the smooth rocks for their comfort; they look like flesh;
the tall grass for not biting me any more than it did,
the wasps for slowly kissing me as they searched for sweetness and went to their rest.
So shall I.
Pic by Aron Mattson.