Whip-poor-will

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Today I went for a long walk to the top of Mt. Sentinel and around it. The sun was barely there, hanging on until the first talons of winter scratch through the warm surface. I had a warm mug of tea and a lot of love in my heart. The cold wind feels really good against my cheeks today. I love this time of year. The carving time. It carves you out like wood and rocks in the river. Tumbles you around like the tumbleweeds, who are nervous because they know snow will crush them soon. 

The sun shining on the crests of the mountains made me think of death because they cling to the sunlight so desperately. I wasn’t sad and I wasn’t thinking of death in a bad way. Just in the way that I am now aware that it could meet anyone at anytime. And I am never scared of my own death…only the ones I love, and even then I am not scared of it. A few people I know and love have recently had brushes with death. It is like the shadows that stroke the hills every evening. It always comes, always goes. I always feel the greatest amount of love for others and for the world when I am out and about. 

I love going to high points–I call them citadels–and looking out across the city. I like to keep watch over my people. I think if I was an animal, I would be a peregrine or a red fox because I am quiet and observant and I like to find nooks and crannies but also very obvious points of observation. I like to make sure everyone is still alive and in love with the world. I silently wish this from the top of my perches. 

The whip-poor-wills are loud. I would not be one of them. 

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