The smell of the pines mixed with the sun was something.
That was existential and not referential,- did not refer to any other time or
place and was in itself timeless, place-less. And the world was so bright there, by the
forest trees. Insects had come alive, borne from the Source. Somewhere a bird
made a noise and another answered. And the heat held itself as a witness over
all things,- even the breeze which came sometimes to assuage people suffering
from humidity. The world,- fields and skies, cumulus and other,- like the
thicket and glen and shrubs,- all coming alive in their won individual ways,-
forming a collective, a whole picture that was still and moving at once.
We shall have
to plug in a small fountain soon, having painted the top one kind of bright color
or another…
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