Inishbofin ~ CAYLA BERNSTEIN

Inishbofin

CAYLA BERNSTEIN

4:45AM. Inishbofin, Ireland. An island with 120 inhabitants. That is, without the birds and sheep and cows and horses and goats. Up on high ground, I sit on a rock that’s cold like marble with a pencil and paper in hand, a cup of tea beside me that sighs steam into the twilight. At the bottom of this hill, fields of green are sable, splattered with the pristine boxes that are the cabins where we stay. I face North where the rolling mountains lie, treeless, nuances of ebony and navy just distinct enough to give them shape in this dim light. To the west, shadowed pastures crawl up to the feet of hills, now silhouettes, outlines luminescent from the shine of the receding moon. And to the east, the fields of a dark jade meadow blend into the eggshell white sand before reaching the coast of the Atlantic, the indigo abyss stroked with pale glimmers where a winking sun breathes warmth among the waves. Beside me, the high ground continues, covered in hairs of shivering groundsel and blushing poppy and lined in raggedy fencing. The fence, more like wooden sticks and wires, can barely be seen in this dark if only by the lines and curves shining in the black air. I blink my marbled eyes that are watering from the brisk air. I hold my warm mug and notice that my fingers feel stiff with the cold against the heat. The steam from my English Breakfast tea whispers through the air like a breeze. It smells of toast and vanilla and honey. I bathe my face in its mist. The air is bitter but tastes sweet and fresh on my tongue. I take a deep breath that sounds like the water purling to the east.

5:20AM. An ivory orb hangs in a sky that starts as honeydew at the horizon and climbs upward into a dusty blue, the work of an artistic genius stroking the sky with lapis paint on his brush as the morning creeps over us. The rolling mountains ahead are colored with kelly and army greens where I can see the bumps and bruises of rocks splattered among the green. Behind me, the bushes tickle one another, the dryness of the weeds rustling like sandpaper in the breeze. The moon to the west has disappeared beneath the golden hills, and the jade pastures are dotted with the shadows of bushes, Nature’s footprints. The finches and robins and sparrows have risen, warbling in the dawn of morning, their chords like syrup dribbling from the teetered grooves of a honey dipper: a soft and smooth crescendo as the melodies drip into the air and then recede like an echo fading away. Sheep babble to the west with the groans of cows who sound quite displeased about waking up early this morning. I can almost make out the conversations of three people standing along the coast, like ants. With my pen and paper, I scribble what words I can make out.

5:45AM. I am watching a goldfinch soar, cut through the blue sky as though swimming in a steady stream, when I hear stems and nodes and petals and tubes crunching to my left, the chomping sound of footsteps. I turn my head to see four dark hooves, legs like posts in the ground. They’re shaded a dark hickory that melts into an umber brown underbelly. Muscled shoulders and hips and sides are like cedar stone that twinkles with the reflection of the sky: a horse! A lone horse. She catches my eye as I stare into hers, the large black marbles, grey eyelashes spreading like wings from her eyelids. Around her eyes is a stone gray mask, but around her mauve mouth is

a snow white that crawls over the bridge of her muzzle and collects itself at her forehead where a circle of white sits beneath her bangs like a daisy. I tuck my notebook and pencil in my waistband and feel it cold against the skin of my hip. I approach the horse, staring into her eyes as they grow larger with nearness. I reach my hand between the wires of the fence, my pale fingers tinted blue with the morning chill. In unison with my outreach, she brings her face toward me, the strong exhale from her snout warm on my knuckles. She pushes herself into my hand, and I let her twist my wrist, push against my fingers to press herself against my palm. I put my hand around her muzzle, solid like a rock, her fur soft like grain, her touch warm against me. She nuzzles into my hand as if she, too, appreciates my warmth during this brisk dawn. There she stands dark like soil against a green meadow. Like the moon shining against a lightless sky. I decide to call her Luna. I sit with random shrubbery tickling my legs, and I let it. I reach for grass and offer it to Luna. I listen to her exhales, like the talk of waves along the shore. Luna breathes. I breathe. The island breathes.