I have become the raven. I feel the rough bark of the branch beneath my feet as I roost, the gentle wind ruffling my glossy feathers. My eyes survey the scene below me, but my mind’s eye sees all.
After sunset, she walks, the breeze whispering through the surrounding vegetation. The rhythmic light sweeps the landscape, red, white, red, white.
Elsewhere, a young man notices the flash of light, broken on the surface of the rushing water, ruby and diamond shards in the darkness.
Along a distant shore, a child walks carefully in the silent dark, hands tightly clutching the hands of his parents. They listen to the sound of the currents crashing on the rocks lit in warning by the silent sentinels.
From her seaside cottage, the poet sees the flaming beacon through the rain, and thinks of the sirens of old – where do they hide now that mariners have guardians to show them the way?
I shake myself out of my reverie, and fly aloft, my midnight shadow stark on the ground against the light from the nearby watchtower. #CampOmniscient
Agents, we are mystified by this entry in the journal. If you are able to shed some light, please share your insight, and be sure to tag us here at ViridCascadia.