I walk silently under the heavy shade of the trees.
The soft crinkling of the dewed grass, left by the misty trail of night, is comforting to my sleepy thoughts and even meditative, hypnotic in effect. My shoes pad lightly across the dark, black surface of the dawning light.
I breathe in the sinking moonlight in the passing time of the rising sun. The horizon appears lighter through the trees, but behind me the yawning darkness of slumbering life still beckons.
I look up into the sky. It is purplish-grey in the dusky twilight of dawn, this pool of creation, and through the canopies silhouetted against that deep violet of the outstretched vision, I can see three stars, set like glinting diamonds against the firmament of the heavens. One shines more brightly than the rest; it stays high about the trees, twinkling violently in the dark delights of the rising sun.
I hear a dialogue of two horns not so far away.
The birds of the morning rise into the air with a massive chatter of sound, and they draw the light azure morning sky behind them like the curtain of light it is, and life bursts forth from the earth—suddenly the busy bustle of sounds and sights and coldly refreshing air blows in my face.
I bask in the weak glow of the morning blue.
II. Clouds in the Sky
I look up at the sky where the clouds are floating serenely in the huge pool of blue.
The fluffy patches of white, like cotton wool stuck on sheets of azure silk, are pushed around by unseen winds, troubling to the silent existence of the water conglomerations high about my head.
I try to find shapes in the clouds like what young children do. And as I crane my neck higher to look at the blinding sky, I seem to hear those high voices: I see an old man’s face! or That’s a duck! or That looks like one of my old shoes… and I seem to see those images, too, in the formless formations of water droplets.
The soft white cirrus stirs in the high altitudes, wispy fragments of dreams and thoughts.
And a large cloud bank floats across the sun’s golden face.
I shield my eyes with a closed palm, and strain my eyes slightly to look directly at the glowing cloud taking its light from the shining sun. The entire cloud is as a single light, with a radiant brightness emerging from every bit of the cotton fluff—and then it gets blown aside from the sun’s face, and the full light of the yellow star hits me full in the eyes.
I look down reflexively and blink to get the afterimage out of my eyes.
III. Jardins sous la pluie
The trees are misty in the softly falling rain.
It is curious to see how rain, being of water that is transparent, can turn everything grey. This grey mills around in the background, the faded greenery of shrubs and the hedge in the near distance.
Repetitive pitter-patter of raindrops on grass. Repetitive pitter-patter of raindrops on grass. Repetitive pitter-patter of raindrops on grass.
Each bead of water resting on the green folds of a leaf, each puddle of light blue on the rocky surface of the pavement, reflects the wet world around it, awash in turbulently circular ripples and waves, lost in regular crests and troughs and light grey shadows…
The even light of the nimbus sheds a dolorous atmosphere over this solemn scene, while the steady drip of the rain on my roof sets up a chaotic rhythm that soothes an overactive mind. The drowsy tails of water down the glass panes are interrupted by the metal grilles, pooling in long streams at the bottom like worms of transparence.
I turn from the window, removing my hand from the glass pane. The ghostly imprint remains, and as I walk away, it slowly fades, disappearing in the ostinato of the falling rain…