The future traveler backpack bustard.
When cool sour morning, I greet the departure of pilgrims adults, I let the sadness in hibernation.
More bitter farewell, finished the sinking of the heart: wild geese can go to their tropical holiday! Winged Migration leaves his peace boreal like leaves Scots abandoning their homes. One rises, one falls into a graceful demonstration of gravity. Among insects numb and shivering trees, my heart burns like fire. Yearning of exile.
As geese at the dawn of the equinox, my journey starts before the first foliage. I leave behind family, work, friends and animals to reach the old continent. The northern
brazen and early sunsets have the aroma of waffles in Brussels, the rain pours its torrent on my head - cool shower Irish - and the days and the rhythms of the west have accents of Britain, Castile, Florence or Thessaloniki. I breathe the mountains of Corsica and olives from Italy.
wing beat in the blink of an eye, the world before my eyes ... and a mosaic of people to know!
Without sorrow, I will follow the disturbing procession of travelers with a long neck, chest puffed up with hope. Anticipation. My own journey: light as a dream balloon with both feet planted on the ground. Nathalie Benoit
The July 4, 2005
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