The owls are confused this time of year.
You can hear them, dazzled by the unfamiliar light that stretches over the grounds they hunt.
The other birds are more pragmatic, less concerned with the unfamiliar-
-More concerned with gorging-
-Before the shadow cast becomes the reality.
We stand sometimes and watch the frantic motion as the sun lazily traces its path between the mountains-
-Barely touching the horizon before it neatly races to the other side, a feat of the particular magic of summer.
By queer chance, both the winter and the summer solstice have passed on days that I share my thoughts.
They are strong tides, those days of light and darkness.
To stand beneath the sun at midnight, it is hard to remember the weight of the dark.
Even then, even in the lazy haze of warmth and light-
-The shadows of the trees still stretch outwards.
Still reach towards the time that is passing back towards survival and the knife’s edge of moonlight.
All light or none, the North is a place beautiful in its extremes.