They pass over every spring and summer. When we lived down in the valley, we saw them as only shooting stars in the night, but this year we climbed the hills and slopes to watch them skim just above our heads.
Lightkites are strange things. They never land, never linger. It’s said they live in the frozen peaks far to the north, or the flat plains of ice in the deepest south. Their distant song rings through the air like bells mixed with whale song, and they leave a scent like freshly smouldering wood on the wind.
Their passage always marks a turning point in the year. Now we enter the warmth and abundance and hard work of summer, and we won’t see the lightkites again until after he harvests.