Well, I don’t know. I don’t know how to begin. The surrounding canvas, maybe? The way I felt? What my eyes saw and my mind perceived? Either way, it was dark. The trees swayed far above my head. The air turbulent and unknowingly anxious for the sun to rise. I didn’t want it to end. The wind was warm and seemed to permeate troubled emotions buried so far down, stretching so far back that reasons elude. Yet their noise was dying down. Their voices had quieted to a dull roar. The mind has little power here, I mused, among the swaying trees and warm winds.
I listened on. I know of a rumbling river nearby, I saw it earlier in the sunshine. The darkness consumes it, but hidden in the wind, it is there. I can feel it. I picture it glistening in the moonlight, if there was moon this night. And then, beneath me is the ground. The warm comfortable ground. It is covered in dead fall, releasing sweet smells of pine and of spruce; I welcome this truce. At minds last waking synapse, I stretch my gaze to the cloudless, starless sky; I leave this at last to your imaginational eye.