Turning in quiet air
A loose drift of starlings arcs above early fields, flight unhurried, the edge of the flock thinning at the margin, space opening where one or two slip wide before the rhythm gathers them in. Beneath, open fog holds the ground pale and untroubled, diffusing all sound. In the gentle sweep, no force constricts, no tight pattern holds. The motion is patient, nearly formless. As the flock leans, direction realigns. Not dictated, but allowed. The air is weightless. The return is gradual, shaped by abiding presence, not pressure.
The way widens where presence lingers.
the words behind the work“Every time I started to lose direction, you didn’t correct me. You just stayed near until I found the way back.”