My art this past month is filled with winged things.
Perhaps it is because I feel the pulse of the year’s heartbeat rushing past me in a swirl of weather and seasons. The passage catches me up like a whirlwind of wings. The trees are alight with blazing colored leaves. The rare rain seeps across the windowsill.
The crows in the park grow brave and chase off the resident red-tailed hawk. Just for a day. She is ensconced in the branches of her throne once again on the following morning. Generally it is a truce of mutual ignoring with the crows. She’s been there longer than they have, and has raised more than one nest full of young. We used to hear them testing their shrill cries from the top of the buckeye tree, and then later as they ventured further from the copse of Italian stone pines.
Pearls are also on my mind. Pearls, my Grandmother, and my value measured by the lustrous bits of ground nacre that she fed to me once upon a time. I never got to ask her what the purpose of that was, and so now, decades later, I am left to wonder. My mother didn’t care what the purpose was, she was furious when she found out.
Pearl dust. Nacre. Transmuted sand. Transmutation of a little girl. What she has taken into herself extending in an alchemized metaphor.
A strange stream of consciousness, but one that tickles my mind in this, the darkest corner of the year, when the sky grows dim before my skin has had a chance to drink its fill of daylight.