Buzzards Blessing

The path to Stannon Stone Circle is quiet in that particular way Bodmin Moor knows so well—where even your own footsteps feel like an interruption. The grass tufts bend low, whispering across the earth, and the air holds that charged stillness that comes before rain.

Out beyond the circle, Roughtor stands dark against the horizon. I watch as the sky above it thickens with grey clouds rolling slowly forward like something ancient waking up. It doesn’t feel ominous—just inevitable.

When I reach the stones, I pause.

They are not arranged with ceremony so much as presence—upright, weathered, patient. I step inside the circle, my soul-mate follows, we talk about our future plans, then something subtle shifts. The air softenens, or maybe we just begin to see differently. The outside world dims, like a door closing behind us.

From his pocket, he takes a clear quartz—its point clean, precise. He held it upright, the terminated tip angled toward the deepening sky. For a moment, nothing but stillness happens.

Then the air moves.

A shadow passes overhead.

We looked up just as a buzzard appears, gliding low, wings wide and steady. It doesn’t circle—it hovers, almost impossibly still, as if held in place by something unseen.

And then there are two.

They drift above the circle, not hunting, not searching—just watching. Their presence feels deliberate. A quiet acknowledgment of us being here. A message of acceptance, even a blessing.

I lower my gaze and reach for the aragonite, its weight grounding in my palm. Warm, textured, alive in a different way than quartz. I press it lightly against one of the stones beside me.

The connection is immediate—not a sensation exactly, but a recognition. As if the stone beneath my hand had always known I would arrive here with this piece of earth shaped into something I could hold. Divine timing.

The air's vibration carries the scent of rain. The clouds over Roughtor thickening, folding into themselves, erasing the edges of the sky.

Above, the buzzards shift slightly, rising together.

Something in me loosens.

Endings rarely announce themselves with clarity. But standing here, between sky and stone, it feels understood—whatever was leaving had already gone. What remains is space. Quiet, open space.

For something new.

The first drop of rain spots against my hand, cool and certain. I close my eyes, holding the aragonite to the stone, while the quartz still points skyward.

When I open them again, the buzzards presence can't be seen, they've drifted away into the grey, we can't see them.

Yet their essence hadn't gone.

Like us, they'd moved on.

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