Mother Carey's Hen

There are days I don’t think about the sea; weeks wash by in fact, then a shearwater—or some such—flutters by on the salt flats fanning out in my mind’s eye, reflected there, a shimmering reverie, recalling the pact I once made (and renew today) to hold to a higher altitude. But note the difference between this bird and me: a slight disruption or harsh word and I crash, folded seaward, letting cold life intrude; whereas the petrel, mindless of such height, scales each watery hill that rises up, adapting to the shape of each impediment, each low escape instinct in it, the scope of its flight fitted to its will.