Point of Decision

The sea tongues the rock once molten, now frozen mid-gallop toward the other. Birds tossed like pieces of paper in the wind. Bone, meat, feather adornments on the colliding bodies of land and water. Flinging themselves and flung. They dive and fall and scream and I envy them and imagine, standing as I am atop one of the cliffs, what it might be like to wheel fearlessly above the cold ocean and jagged land. 

I am filled with shivering inspiration and I swallow and swallow with my eyes, but can't get a breath and can't rest my desire to take in more and more. and still more.

And the clouds sit.  Like predators. 

There is a frustrated wish to toss myself immortally to the wind. My small body clings to its limits and also some vague yet pervasive sense that this landscape is already myself. I feel the span of it like skin, from the eyes of pink vapor to the fins of foam and the blades of stone that slice the sky.