Other than you, Mother, what I miss most is the water. Nothing here is as cold as the Atlantic, no smell as sharp or sudden as the sea turn, no sound as sharp as the gulls' screams, no wind that slices bone-deep and leaves you raw and quivering. Though of course, there is wind -- wind that uproots trees as if they were weeds; wind that drives the rain to a mad gallop, beating hail and water against the house like thunderous hoofbeats. It leaves the world heavy, drenched in ripe, wet-earth smell. It steals sound; even the hawk's scream is not sharp in the aftermath, but muffled, as if to be sharp is too much effort as he rides the hot, slow wind, watching for small prey to be lured out by the smell of rain-soaked grass and divets filled with fresh water; watching for the tell-tale trembling of the leaves as the rabbit, nose quivering, inches forward and leaves his shelter. The hawk dives, his claws the only sharp thing in this washed-out tableau, death reflected in water droplets on the grass. Everything, even the wind, pauses before the heavy thud of his landing and the smell of blood soaking into the wet ground, mixing with the smell of storm-crushed flowers, fallen fruit and soggy leaves. It's all blunt damage here. Even the hawk ends his wind ride with a thud. I've heard it. Just as deadly as a sharp snap, though, and just as easy to be lured to death by water.
My reflections on moving both south, and inland. Part of the Mom-box project.