Kindlingers, readers, friends – good morning to you!

I feel like I haven’t really come back down to Earth since we got back from Japan. It’s been a month of ups and downs and a lot of love.

We were down south this weekend for Omer’s birthday and stayed with my cousin at her gorgeous spot in the valley pictured below. The sunrises were breathtaking.

Happy to be back writing again, even if it’s only about what’s right in front of me.

As always, enjoy x

I felt the cool curls of clouds lick my legs
a slip forced the wing to dip — I lay back and
hoped the passengers didn’t see my skirt fly up

It’s cold and lonely on the wing
I wondered if a dial in the cockpit told the pilots
that I was out here, holding on

The world balanced the plane on its fingertip
I was dancing on its fingernail
flying, falling, praying, crying

Without the seatbelt sign and the emergency exit row
I was between heaven and earth, would swear
black and blue we passed an exit for a Pearly Gate

When the plane hit a pocket the wing flexed
I was an aphid on a blade of grass
I was a dew drop on a spider’s web

Though the engine roared in my ears
I roared louder — I knew better
because girls don’t sit on the wings of planes unless

I knew I was bound for greatness
I forged a ticket for a window seat and took the first plane flying north
did the pilots know where they were taking me?

Great winds thrust upon me, stretched me out, rinsed me
I crossed my legs for the descent and screamed
like my life depended on it, the sun in my eyes

The pure blue sky grabbed fistfuls of my hair
someone pointed, faces in the windows
and before they could ask for a flight attendant

I let go

Nobody questioned a bonfire on a farm. They drove past and gawked, but it was a farmer’s prerogative on their land if they wanted to burn a fire early in the morning and watch the sun rise. More often than not, the quality of the fire matched the sunrise perfectly.

One particular farmer from Guildsby burned a fire once a week. His fires were controlled and beautiful. Sometimes people stopped and asked what he was burning. Sometimes the farmer deigned to tell them.

After burning his fire he’d visit the farmer’s wife next door for a cup of strong coffee. They’d discuss the same things; the sheep, the snow on the mountain, the height of the river and the things the dogs had found the week before. She always wondered after he left if he was lonely on that farm all by himself. He always wondered if she was lonely at home while her son and her husband were out all day. They kept the coffee ritual regular, telling themselves it was for the other, but they were both lonely and doing it for their sanity.

One day when the farmer who made beautiful bonfires that reflected the quality of a sunrise was driving into town, he noticed three farms burning fires of their own. Each fire with a quality unique to the farmer who lit it and the matter it was burning. He wouldn’t have thought it strange, except all of the farmers burning their fires seemed to be watching the road. As the farmer from Guildsby who lit a fire once a week drove past these other farmers and their fires, they waved to him and stood proud in front of their roaring blazes.

It struck the farmer, as he drew closer to town, that these farmers reminded him of those he saw at the A&P show, boasting about their prize-winning pigs, horses and sheep.

The farmer’s wife from next door to the farmer who lit fires that complemented the very mountains they burned under, on her way back from dropping her son to the bus stop, had noticed these other farmers and their fires. As she drove past one of them, she saw him hold a hand to his brow and squint ahead of her at the road as it curved around the bend. In her rearview mirror he wiped his face with a handkerchief and paced in front of the fire like he was waiting for someone.

The next morning, it was bonfire day for the farmer next door to the wife who got lonely being home all day. She could see his bonfire spot from her kitchen window – which of course is how the coffee ritual had started in the first place. The usual cars slowed as they passed the fire’s majesty, the brake lights a garish red compared to the molten gold of the bonfire. But this week, more cars stopped and farmers got out to lean on her neighbour’s fence. She counted five farmers in their beanies, fleeces and gumboots lined up watching the fire or the farmer or both – she couldn’t tell.

A young farmer, no older than twenty-one, had heard about the weekly fires the farmer from Guildsby lit from the town over. He’d asked around at his local watering hole for clues as to which farm and which day these bonfires could be seen from. This morning he’d awoken early to drive along the road connecting his town to Guildsby hoping for a glance at the fire more beautiful than a piece of the sun itself. He’d driven over the hill in a predawn haze hoping that he’d made it in time before the fire became an inevitable pile of smoulder and smoke. His grandfather had always lit the best, most-controlled fires in his family. But they were small, only burning for an hour or so before turning to a handful of embers.

About an hour into the burning of a fire that looked like a piece of the most glorious sunrise, the young farmer from the next town arrived. He joined the five others who’d beat him there to witness, what could only be described as, one of the few irrefutable reasons to live to see another day. The bonfire truly was a thing to behold, more gorgeous than a clear night sky and smelling better than the first decent rain after a drought.

No one spoke to the farmer. No one asked questions. A few tourists noticed the crowd and stopped to take photos of the miraculous burning mass. No doubt every photo was overexposed and disappointing upon later viewing as they drove over the hill towards more populated areas.

From her window, the wife of the farmer who was out all day took a photo of the farmers at the fence bewitched by the fire of her neighbour whom she suspected felt a little less lonely that morning. She sat at her computer in the corner of the lounge and began typing out a story about the fires her neighbour conjured each week and how he’d set the standard for neighbouring farms.

The farmer who’d lit the fire noticed he had garnered an audience and walked towards the fence and leaned against it next to a farmer he recognised from somewhere. Seven farmers in total watched the blaze for a time; until six of them had to go back to their farms and do the jobs that didn’t involve fire or glory.

The farmer who’d garnered an audience made sure the fire had burnt out before driving up the hill to have a strong cup of coffee with his neighbour as he had every other week. They talked about the sheep and the snow and the river and the dogs. She showed him her story, the bones of it, the parts she was proud of. The farmer, who the story was largely about, looked at the wife of the farmer who’d written a story about him and his fire and he told her to publish it.

The day her story was run in the local paper, the farmer who was known for the quality of his sunrise fires was sitting at the table of the wife of the farmer who’d chosen to stay home that day and watched her answer the many phone calls and smile down at the texts people had sent. It was their fire now; it was their story. From then on, they didn’t worry if the other was lonely. They just weren’t anymore.