Sunday, 10 August 2014
Gusty wind today. All the valley bends and groans under the weight of the years. Clouds scudding on by, sailing up above me. I went walking to the river and sat on a rock. Saw the otter watch me then glide easily into the water. Her fur was puckered and jagged from the wet drops rolling off her back.
Then, of course, the splendour of the Kingfisher, fleeting, shooting above the river into the safety of the orange banks of mud. Her colour always surprises me; such a bright, electric blue. Glimmering she was, as the sun dropped through the clouds.
Then down under the great brick bridge where there is a mighty waterfall, and the cars sailing over the top, cannot be heard. Wrote my name there, with the blood of a blackberry.
Now here am I, writing as though I were Virginia Woolf, and you, her diary. Full of her today though, always am whenever I see her Kingfisher. Her unspoken favorite.