Síobhrai (sheev-ree)

After the storm the woods are holy, fragrant with earth and plants, rinsed clean and warded by contralto flutesong of wood thrush and the high, bright joy of song sparrows. The world smells newly made. Renewed. Like a woman after birth, astonished and exhausted, holding her child against her breast while both still belong partly to another realm. Along the green riverbank, two geese settle beside their goslings each small body tucked beneath the shelter of wing and rain-damp feather.

In the horror of these times, I come to this bench above the river where *síobhrai floats faint, ghostly, liminal drifting between water and air as though the earth itself exhales spirit. Here the world loosens its hard edges. Here grief softens enough to breathe through. A heron breaches the mist’s pale caul and is born before my eyes: all slate-blue silence, slow wings, and ageless patience. In this moment, the river and its banks hold holy mysteries untouched by the fever of these times, and I remember that creation does not cease simply because we have forgotten how to see it.

*Síobhrai (sheev-ree) Irish-A faint, ghostly mist that creates a mystical atmosphere. Also, siabhra (plural síobhraí) refers to otherworldly beings and nature spirits.