From where I sit, the sun filters through coastal redwoods and the surf roars in front of me—the roar rises from over the trees, down the hill, across the highway, down the cliff. In the trees there is a cacophony—hyena, parrot, colony of monkeys, Tuvan throat singers? We decide the ravens are magic here and tricksters in the morning.
As I sit here, the trees are breathing and growing. They are pulling water from the earth and air, from under the leaves, needles, shrubs, vines and hard dry earth they find it. From the salty mist, they find sustenance, pulling it into their cells, pulling it from the earliest times into today, ancient wizards.
A plane’s engine hums, even here. The dog snores, sighs, stretches dragging her nails across the wooden deck. Somewhere nearby my husband is reading, transmuting words into knowledge, his form of wizardry.
For the moment, the ravens have gone silent. The only sound is my pen on page, the roaring in my ears, and I want to swallow this whole, to bottle this and take it with me in my suitcase, hide it in my toiletry bag for the journey we’ll make, winding our way home. I’ll pocket the bottle, tippling from it, as long as it lasts.