Kittiwake Chorus I

I, a lone pilgrim perched at the edge, with a god’s-eye view of everything, weaving creeds on the headland trail. Below, Skerwink Rock, black stone, cathedral, floating between heaven and sea. Monolithic. Metamorphic. Hexahedron, casting its spell. A Kaaba for kittiwakes, on their spring pilgrimage, finding sanctuary in cliff-ledge crevices thin as whispered prayers, feathering nests, raising their young. Sacred and profane entwined. No wall divides what’s woven, here. Their spirit, angelic, dances on currents, glides on updrafts. As witness, a grace bestowed upon my weathered heart. A chorus now fills the salt-soaked air. Their once-silent winter sabbatical on stormy seas, distant, a memory. Kittee-wa-waaake, kittee-wa-waaake, kittee-wa-waaake. Atop the stone, cormorants spread wings, harbingers, according to hushed dogma, sailors’ lore. I quieten, open, embrace the chanting, circling choir. No scripture, no hymn. Only a joyous cry divined by instinct. Certain, unyielding, weaving through blustery Atlantic air, lifting the heavens for all eternity. Kittee-wa-waaake, kittee-wa-waaake, kittee-wa-waaake. Believers, every one.