Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Fowl language

Idyllic moonlit nights, starry skies and an icy stillness to the air. All is calm before the calamity. Watching our freedom of movement erode with nationalistic flag waving, yet it seems so distant from us right now. But this creepy feeling is on my mind every waking morning, Jaffa's barking at distant wild animal noises suddenly become irrelevant. The irony of becoming trapped here in an ex-communist state. I'm not saying we don't enjoy our life, but sense and sensibility might need us to one day drive us back. Soon we might not be able to do so together. It's all speculation and humming, and my dramatic thoughts might just be that. There are far worse nervous souls and why should I worry about it after where we have got to. The opportunity to build a garden shed from scrap with no neighbour disputes, with only puzzled deer speculating what it could be. The breathless cold is perfect to chop wood every day, even when I don't need to chop! Hens swearing their fowl language and clucking demands, it's entertainment in these frozen times. The luscious jam smells from the kitchen stove, next year's supply in production.  Dreamy life and feeling stuck, it make's no sense.
The behaviour of the country I left is as far away as the moon.

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