WORLDS

In the sort of micro world an insect or bug alights on a flower. All around are green, red, droplets of water, the terra cotta stones and the parapet, the colors and the sounds of the day. But in the macro world, two, possibly three incredibly large hawks circle around not far from there. They have spotted some kind of prey, and are surveying the scene closely. Quietly bumpy summits announce their tops to the sunlight while in the little valleys underneath bushes grow and then wave in a sudden breeze that comes across the land. The cedar shakes on the tops of houses even further away receive the light, heat up. So much they have seen from the winter storms to the spring rains and back once more. North of all that some winding forest paths lead to an opening and there the sky waits again. It’s blue and cloudless. Some buzzing sounds from the wild shrubs and old trees can be heard. Old farm machinery sits in the middle the clearing, rusted and rustic. The world slowly turns and at the same time the weather, atmosphere, changes. Shades make shapes under the sun. Tall trees grow and old branches fall down to the earth. The soil gathers them up as compost and in due time they are part and parcel of another tree, flower, shrub, or other. Of course the micro and the macro world are inseparable in the ultimate sense. But to frame, speak of, write about, et cetera, - it gets broken up somewhat into parts. Look back and see in a natural and intuitive glance, with soft eyes and quiet mind, - that all the parts make the whole. There is the day and the night too. There is the creature atop a flower, the root systems, the fallen branches, - right on up to the circling pastoral hawks and the sky above running itself infinitely up and up. 

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