Some days it is hard to see the magic. The ordinariness of the days roll into weeks, time just a series of events punctuated with the occasional moment, whisper, or gesture that you remember forever. It's been especially hard to find the magic this week, the rainiest April on record. Day after day of thunderous, pelting, pouring, tipping, pissing down rain which fills our thirsty reservoirs and drains our souls. The cats and I have been housebound.
During a rare glimpse of sun, and it's lovely and warm behind the clouds, a swallow lands on the telegraph wires as I scrub the breakfast dishes. She sits there all the time I wash-up and is still there when I return to the window for morning coffee, it occurs to me that this little bird is knackered. She (it could be a he I grant you - but it is apparently very hard to tell them apart, I just googled it) has not moved in a couple of hours. Could it be that she has just landed after flying all the way from Africa?
Imagine the journey that little bird has flown, over mountains, plains, rivers and jungle, past wars and peace, filthy cities and choas, over people's every day lives, through birth and death and hope. The enormity of her journey is humbling.
I'm glad I looked up and saw her, she has given me the sparkle that this week needed.
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