Cagorro, The Azores Night Bird
I am writer.
And yet as I gaze through a window to the ocean, glancing in between green and rocky strewn mountains galloping across this landscape, catching their breath before the moon moves on, I wonder if words will ever be sufficient.
Singing of a village lined by stone houses adorned with shuttered windows—some green, others blue—all closed to prying eyes, I peer deeply into gardens beyond a wall, as sounds waft over. Carefully choosing the declarative sentence that will mold their world to mine–yearning to be with them, I willingly offer this gift and not another.
But they tell me, “No, we don’t want yours, we have plenty. Why don’t you walk into her lettuce patch and ask the tree of knowledge planted there beside the holy basil who was here in the beginning giving gifts?”
Didn’t you reach and grasp for more lemongrass after eating her green snap peas–that red fringed flower flaying gently on your tongue? Was the sun caressing that sweet fecundity or was it simply blessing our cheeks? Trilling notes of the robin layered overhead while we stood there smelling lavender.
We were dreaming of the day those bleeding hearts would burst, filing our juice glasses full of intuition.
I hope so, I do, but if that didn’t get you intoxicated, although it should have, you could ascend a steeper mountain to a church—brown doors and lace curtains hid magnificent light as their sign burned brightly—white lit bulbs signaling welcome.
And you, perched there, in that cloud by the morning glory, gazing back at the sea, remembered the terraced garden, the church, the ocean, the lettuce, and knelt worshipping, as the high arch of a giant succulent bent over to kiss you once again.
You looked so wondrous–transported to a place in vertical dimensions–once and all here, yet over there too.
Speaking for others, but mostly myself, I draw a breath that unbinds, as the inhalation follows the exhalation, capturing all that lives within.
Let’s dance until all falseness is dispelled that this is less than transformational.
And the Cagarro, the Azores night bird imagines so too. She sings to you if you listen.