The bees buzzing in the trees. Some water comes over the Mulberry and disturbs them. They are not vexatious though, just on their way now somewhere else. It happens. The life of a bee. He will tell you so himself. The green grasses deeply textured and well wrought. An island of limestone for a fireplace. Soft breezes blow across the towns. Green wood, painted to resemble the most verdant of leaves, waits for feet, for chairs, for whatever wants to go there. A red plant in a yellow container. A yellow plant in a brown clay container. Some wild raspberries. A tomato plant, struggling, staked, but making its way in the water, heat, in the noonday sun that bleaches all and everything. Yes. It’s an affirmative, the world. The world is. That is enough, that it is. Perhaps there is nothing behind objects. Perhaps there is nothing inside of objects. The whole entire thing and the nothing-Source it comes from is said to be God. The cats form triangles and catch birds. The birds are, as much as possible, set free. One cat is old, and has seen everything- the birth and life and death of many other domestic animals. They leave her alone. She is tired and sagacious as she sits and rests. Still though, she likes to go for a bit in the sun and grasses and shade that lives under wooden fences. Cats. Birds, Trees. Plants. A terra cotta retaining wall- the green leaves in the sun high over the parapet that waits always, forever and a day, as they say. And the bees. They have come to life and work hard in garden and forest worlds.