On Divers

In winter, the divers come. They are strangers to me during the long days of summer, becoming birds of remote places or heather-sprung lochans while attending to eggs and — when their luck holds — chicks. But now it is cold. Days are short, hemmed in by nights black as feathers and boiling clouds of the leaden elements. Sour looking pasture land, all sapped of vigour, runs down from the scoured hills to the beech-lined shore. In the narrow sound between mainland and island, the wind owns the waves. Beaten water, never still, frothing at the skerries. A silver glimpse where waves crest the kelp beds hints at a seal, an otter, a salmon. Or, more likely, just a trick of my hungry eye in this time of optical famine. <a href="https://medium.com/@julia_68166/on-divers-e237c224f9c1">Click Here</a>