No. One just flew off and landed again. Huddled, they are. But not touching. Pulled in, head tucked, wings to body. Bracing themselves against the storm. Seeking shelter on a frozen lake where it is warmer than a stirring stormy ocean.
Waiting. In community. Remembering the taste of fish, the sting of salt water, sun drying their wings. Below, through sixteen inches of rock-hard ice is the promise of spring and then summer. But today, through tears of snow, they listen for a heartbeat, a ripple, a splash that says the world is not ending, it’s just lives on hold.
Can you be love-sick for your enemy? Why not? Your enemy sustains you. Fills you with a symphony of emotions, not the least of which is adoration. It’s age old really. Adversaries, locked in battle. Hate tainted by admiration. Love hinging on madness. The promise of meeting one day, regardless of what fate will dictate. The promise being everything and nothing. How often do you feel such passion?
One must swim. One must fly. As a carburetor is essential to a car or truck. So it is with the seagull and the fish. And the knowing binds them. There is no deception in the darting of fin through water. There is only beauty and grace in the gliding on expanded wing. They are in it together. The game of life. One will die. Maybe both. But now, on snow-filled earth and ice-clogged water, the heart stirs more then the belly. Survival may breed hate, but lonliness, whatever the reason, induces love. It may be false. But it’s real in the moment, when the long wait for winter’s end seems light years away.
