Wind caressed the yellow grass, which rustled amidst the old stones. Tomb stones, even if they could have looked like normal round rocks poking their heads from the gentle slope of the hill. The wind was blowing upwards, towards the mountain top, roaring with the waves of the sea. I couldn’t see the sea from my vantage point. I could only hear them and their immensity; envision with my mind’s eye how the steely clouds merged in a continuous line over the horizon, becoming one with the gray waters.

It looked like it would rain soon. I tasted salt on my tongue. The air felt electric, a promise of what was to come. Even the yellow grass looked alive, expectant, dancing and bending, following the whims of the wind. The tomb stones, on the other hand, looked oblivious. In their quiet stillness, they appeared untouched by time and the frenzied excitement of the weather. These stones were old. They seemed older than the very landscape that hosted them. Older than the largest trees in the forest, and the small stream that ran down the mountain to meet the sea. Only the sea themselves might have been older than those stones, and sometimes I doubt that as well.

What made these stones so old? Not the nearly faded symbols carved on their weathered faces. Not even the crusty lichens that dotted their crinkly skin. No. What made them old were the eyes; the watching eyes that stared towards the sea. Eyes that never blinked, sentinels of the cliffs. The eyes of souls that once were, forever marked in stone.

I come here to think. It feels isolated, but not lonely. How could I be lonely, when so many eyes peer out of the grass? Those eyes never look at me. Why would they? I am so young. The grass is more permanent than my fleeting life. The stones don’t care for something as ephemeral as my plumed passage.  

I like to look at them. I like to spend time with these old stones and watching eyes. They are out of time. They aren’t even really part of this place. Sometimes I wonder where they came from, to what lands they belong. How did they come to stand vigil on this shore? I will never know the answers to my questions, but I don’t care. The questions are more interesting than the answers, and I like the stones’ silent company. They make me focus before my journey, when my wings take to the wind and the immensity of my blue home.