White out

Wild and woolly on the beach this morning – grey ocean, seaspray across the beach, black clouds and thunder in the distance.
A cloud of tiny terns flew up, wheeling, drifting and shifting like fog around my head. They looked so weary. I imagine they’ve just arrived from Antarctica. I tried to tell them to stay where they were, that I meant them no harm and would skirt around, but they clearly can’t speak English – maybe they’ve come from Siberia – and so they fluttered and squeaked and rose reluctantly in the air just in case I was a polar bear.
By the time I’d finished my walk I was much the same, trudging pitifully in soft sand into a wind that froze every cell in my face, imagining myself only slightly better off than Pierre shuffling through the snow after the burning of Moscow.
Pathetic, I know.
Usually I write stuff in my head while I walk but I was too sorry for myself this morning, and grateful only for the fact that I’m not a tern. Or Siberian.

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