My last post of the year for The Wild Hunt regards an undine.
Grey explodes into many blues when I watch dark clouds pass overhead, even more so when I stare at their reflection on the surface of a pool where an undine makes its home. It’d be easier if I just called it “grey,” refused to distinguish things that other people don’t think matters. I could call it “grey” and be done with it, live my life without so many colors, so many stories.
And I’m off. I get on a plane in a few hours to Florida to see my sisters, and a few days after that to Ireland.
Time to go be a pilgrim again.
This’ll be fun.