present

When you wake up from the many sleeping bouts of the day, and you sit outside in the very-warm sunshine, looking to the utmost tops of the trees (which seem almost to reach its very source), and tiny winged things buzz around gently alone, in carefully chaotic groups, turning this way and that, blinding-white in the bright light. And here are many puffs, in all of their crystalline urchin shapes; they twirl and tumble and pinwheel down, slowly and in great long zig-zagging lines which no one can really predict (where will they end up?). Your gaze catches a quick shimmering rope of silver and your heart becomes giddy to imagine the leaping spider from the bough, taking such brave and ardent advantage of its altitude. And here is a crow, flying yet higher above with some great urgency, blackest black with a blanket of hot light slicking off its back, spurring it onwards (is its destination yet known?). A heavy blue dragonfly, brutish and clumsy, mills around in the air looking for something, anything. Your eyes look past the trees in the yard and see the trees in the next, and beyond that the trees on the hill further still. You recall a time when it was snowing here, and you sat in this same heavenly spot; someone pointed out to you that, look: the snow in the distance falls slower, even more quietly somehow. You see that she is right. Your eyes focus back and forth from here to there, noting the different speeds, and you wonder... what is it that tells my eyes where to rest? You see the snowfall so very clearly, both here and there, but what about all of the inbetween (and beyond, behind)? Would it simply be too much to take it all in, to know all of it? For now you are quite content with these two distances. But one day you hope to see more, to see the entirety of all possible depths, infinite focal planes. Until then, you can breathe. This is enjoyment, and you are content, and it is all enough.