The Quiet Marshland
In the quiet marshlands, where the wind mingles with the rustling reeds, I find myself immersed in the preening ritual. I stand alone in the soft glow of dawn, my reflection shimmering in the tranquil waters. The sacred enclave, hidden from prying eyes, echoes with the silence of solitude as I embark on this solitary ceremony. Dipping my long, slender neck into the mirrored surface, I engage in a personal communion that transcends the boundaries of the avian realm. Preening, for me, is more than a grooming routine; it is a solitary moment of connection with the marsh’s mystique. In the stillness of my hallowed place, the strokes of my beak through the feathers become a whispered dialogue with the unseen energies that course through the marsh. Each rustle of feathers carries the weight of my existence, a silent promise to maintain the harmony that sustains this ethereal haven. I navigate this timeless ritual alone.
~ Robert David Atkinson