Mysty River Dragon meets the Big White Boreas

Another slow start this morning. A pale sun was peekabooing over the Brandenberg. So there was plenty of time to climb up into the Solling Forest and walk down quietly, deeply breathing into the the cold fresh air. I tried to avoid thinking back to that “solitary confinement” experience of yesterday evening: the birthing of a poem on the verge of falling into muteness and failure.

The night swines had rumpled up the footpath alongside the the Little Peacevally Brook, to dig up their acorns and other smacks. As the sun rose between the firs, oaks and young beeches on the hillside, I found many colourful reflexions in the ruffling water of the brook. There were some near “abstract paintings” among them: Monet and Jongkind, and “stained glass windows”. I will share these with you later on, improving quality in the meantime.

Then I descended out on the Weser riverside. There I sat on the “ Fisherfriends-Stone” for a long time. Finally, here again I enjoyed these wonderful moments of serenity and mindful breathing. Now and then the sun broke through to warm me up a bit. The whirling of the stream told me to come back here with pen and paper. And already I listened to the beginning of that Old Cormorant Story.

It tells about that Fisherfriend who used to live at the seaside. But accidentally she took a different route back home and continued flying on and on: over the dunes, the meadows, rivers, forests, mountains and finally landed near the joining of two rivers, where she decided to stay, just because it felt to be her destination. Since the story is rather long, I hope you will give me the chance to pick up my pen and paper first and to sit on the Stone to write it down.

Eventually I looked up from the East to the North over the river. The eastern sun had risen above the clouds and was warming up the hillforest. Over the turning of the river I witnessed how the mysty River Dragon bowed upwards to the Big Cloudy Boreas. Apparently they exchanged the latest news: Nymphs are playing their innocent games, perhaps you can hear their laughter from the riverside meadows, further on, beyond the turning...