Portugal

I saw a small bird face down into the dark and dangerous depths below. It bounced and swayed on the thin branch it balanced on. It looked down into the depths without fear, quietly waiting for the right moment - whatever that moment could be.

Then, without a second thought, it dove. It dove into the hole and was swallowed up by the darkness within. But then out it came once more, dipping and diving in and out of the crevice like it owned it. Like it knew all it's limitations and knew the very essence of the cave and trusted it completely. Every ebb and flow of the war below shooting inconsistent waves of air up to the surface. As if the wind was there as a gift for the bird, to aid it in its flight.

I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

The sea painted the smoothed cliff face like veins charged with new life. The ocean feeds the cliff over and over and over.

The waves have reached their precipise, kissing the air before crashing apart once again.

The song and dance continues.