On the cliff top I stand.
I’m looking out to sea.
The rolling white horses, in their morning silence are calling only to me.
The breeze flicks my hair.
Not a soul to be seen, save mine.
Closer I move.
Near to the edge.
Checking out the lichen, which dresses the rocks.
From nowhere the wind increases, without intention I find myself flying.
I’m a perfect butterfly without wings.
It’s later now.
The walker of the blonde dog finds me.
Laid prone, potentially slain by the wind.
The beautiful dog licks my cheek.
The walker looked on, somewhat bemused.
He dropped to his knees.
Confused conversation ensued.
Whatever will be will be.