Flooded pools and saturated ground have deterred most of the walkers. I think myself alone, crossing the waterlogged stretch between estuary and sea, looking only at the mosses, golden and fluffed up, threaded softly through the sodden grass. My eyes have been fixed low, but something causes them to rise. One small lift of the head and I have landed somewhere else, in another realm entirely, where time forgets to flow and birds are made of gold.
I watch the golden plover on the ground before me, basking in the shining plumage. The brilliant sparks, scattered flames roaring in brown relief, seem to enact a special alchemy before my eyes – there is gold being made, here, in this living bird. When I am able to leave the speckled fire of the feathers, I look into its eyes. With its head tilted and slender build, it is not as cocksure as I would expect the owner of living gold to be. It is not quite sure what to do with itself, and nor am I. I could live in this moment for days.
Instead, conscious of my looming size and lack of precious metals, I back away. Squelching down, my feet meet the water seeping in through old boots. Though I am flushed with sudden cold, I don’t react. My movements are small and quiet. The glowing bird looks on in silence. I cross over a runnel to the side and resume my walk with the water in between us. It seems satisfied with this arrangement and stays where it is. Walking backwards, I see its frame growing smaller as the surrounding sky increases, darkens. The only sun is on the ground; its flaming feathers break through the clouds.
We watch each other for a long time. When it is out of view, I turn my head and let it drop once more, eyes sinking into soggy ground. Although the sun has gone, there are echoes still, trickling through the grass and buried low. I scan the submerged mosses, panning for gold.
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