Presa de Aldeadávila, In the Fog
The fog wraps its fingers around the stillness, and we are the only ones here. A silence thick enough to swallow our words.
The fog wraps its fingers
around the stillness,
and we are the only ones here.
A silence thick enough to swallow
our words.
The birds of prey
dance,
a performance written in the wind,
their wings cut the air
like forgotten stories
flung from the edges of time.
They spiral and dive,
majestic,
unbothered by the stillness
that surrounds us.
I feel the pull of their flight,
the way they hold the sky
in their grasp,
untouched by gravity
or reason.
We watch,
in the fog,
not needing to speak
to know we are witnessing
something sacred,
something fleeting.
Here,
we are only watchers,
not part of the dance
but still caught in its rhythm,
like echoes,
feeling the wind in our bones
long after the birds have gone.