I awoke much earlier than I'd have liked – a furbat nested right above my window and called for a good while before I could even see dawn coming. Needless to say, I was disgruntled at my early awakening, not least because it was one of my only days of relaxation from yesterday's sodding hard work in my field. Might I have one day where I can rest however long I wish?
I decided frustration at a furbat merely living was neither a good use of my time nor a good start to a day, so I promptly arose, dressed and entered the kitchen. I took the lamp and lit what fatty residue was still in there, for dim yet warm comfort. I then poured myself some oats with tepid water from the overnight stove and added various berries (cloud-, lingon-, bil-) for some sugary energy. Staring out of the main window looking onto my field and down the hills where the village sits, I saw no-one. Not a living breath nor a lit house in the distance.
There was mist descending all the way down the nesh soil of the valley, the brumal landscape echoing with distant howls of wind beyond the cusps of the hilltops. The mist gathered by the cold sea at the base of the hill, where boats sat still at the tranquil waters, like a sleeping flock; I was surprised to see no fishers down there by this hour. The clouds muffled the sun's brilliance to a bleached orb peeking above the horizon, like a psychopomp's lamp in the far distance beckoning spirits for safe passage to the Lands of Rest.
It was in this moment I felt much smaller, though not insignificant. Rather, I felt like I was as much a part of this universe as the smallest elements that make me. Seeing everything from a distance, perched alone with all senses bare to my environment, laid before me was my minute position in this quiet land.