A cliff rises above the sea, jagged, wild, immovable. The waves, far below, break against it with noisy violence. This is where the ocean ends and the patchwork fields begin, suddenly. In the fields, there are sheep. As I walk past, one of them looks up at me as he chews a disinterested mouthful of grass. He has eyes, so he can see the same view I see. He has ears, so he can hear the waves, and the gulls crying out above him.
I am only visiting, and part of me envies this sheep his home and his everyday sights and sounds. I look up and wonder what the gull’s eyes are seeing as he soars over all of this on the power of the wind. I wonder if I were a gull, could I ever get used to that feeling enough to focus on feeding myself? I think I might be a skinny gull. But I think I would be filled with the thrill of wonder.
Continue reading The Sheep Don’t Know
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