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.