Wolkenbruch, (german). A cloud breaking.
The River fuller than I remember it, waves rolling towards the shore and washing up against the rushes, on the doorstep of our old home.
Then, a break in the clouds and the sky takes on a pale blue with dark purple-blue clouds, like bruises, crowding the edges.
Kingfishers, -assumed descendants of a certain individual named Charlie-, chatter as they swoop into over the water and perch along the shore. The Charlies have lived along this river for as long as I can remember, and so has the heron. Long-legged, long-necked, he clears the treetops, his pterodactyl-like figure surprisingly graceful both on land and in the sky. Every summer they, the River, the oak trees, the old house, they’re all still there, just like before. Just older, bigger, smaller, wilder, more run-down.
In the morning, bare feet trampling thyme,
Time here always too short,
Tabusintac, Taboosimgeg, till we meet again.