All around the places small flowers are blooming. Right as you walk, just as you are, there may be a wildflower, proudly announcing its yellow in the late afternoon or early evening air. Looking up and around, there is sometimes a hawk that circles and looks circles and glides, circles and thinks quickly. The stream, slow and patient, running past whist a mercurial bird looks this way and that. It is a red-winged black bird, the one everybody likes. Making its decision, it flies and goes across the golden fields towards barns, silo, loam, the blue sky and the cumulous that has drawn itself across it.
We are blooms too, rising up from the Source, the everything and Nothing, - looking ‘round. In the fields there is the coyote, just for a bit, - because he has to go back safely to his den, to the brook and shade and thicker ways of the valley. Deer, grazing but cautiously. A truck, somewhere far and far in the distance, lets out a horn. It’s going towards the infrastructure, to cement, to plazas and ‘places,’ more urban and therefore heavy, where people play out there karmas in more dramatic fashions. It’s really a large boat, - ambitions boat, and so many have thrown themselves into it.
The sun splashes down on the old barn roof. Tonight a hen might dream it has become a Northern Lake or a Southern Californian fern. One day we should all go to the Catskills, the Adirondacks, the Himalayas themselves! The sun. Yes. It makes an ascent and the moon slumbers somewhere. It peaks, and the blooms seem to bloom. Coming down,- sometimes we are lucky enough to see the pink, purple, blue, and beautifully crazy reddish lines seems to wrest out of the horizon,- north of cities by pastoral fields, and even in the cities,-because it falls like the Man says,- on the good and bad both…