Soft, the sky above me, but the east is raw with dawn. Quietness holds the world gently, as if it is made from porcelain. But there is song: low music of cicadas, leaping calls of the small birds. I sit here alone and think of the women drawing themselves out of dark oceans, and what slips from them as they come - perhaps lace and satin; half-forgotten wishes; stars. If they want to survive the long dry day, they must oil themselves. For women aren't meant to go skinless, but the world demands it of them, even while deriding whatever protections they try to give themselves.
Remember that every one you meet is a naked goddess. Be gentle with
their courage. Be respectful, and see the primeval waters in their eyes.
(some lovely news: Robert Macfarlane is now on twitter.)