Monday 8th October 2001 20-25 CET
Pyramidical Pines silhouette against a dusk-grey sky like supersized
static spinning tops. Bone-baring Birch trees scarcely acknowledging
their leaf-like flesh surrender to the ending of the autumn season by
carpetting the ground with decaying memories of spring and summer.
The air, moistened after the days hard rains, invites the misting earth
to metamorphose a geni here or a Marley there whilst two Red Deer
attentively listen to my approaching footsteps from a distance of about
200 meters. Wisely deciding that they have no wish to socialise, for this,
after all, is the hunting season here, they bouncily glide away across
the drop laden grasses of the field into the shadowed anonymity of
the nearby woodland.
If you listen very, very carefully you can hear the land counting sheep,
though this land in this area is not farmed in any way despite it's
incredible productivity as witnessed by the surging growth after
forest felling events. Sheep counting preludes sleep and the land
needs it's rest in accordance with the season's supervision.
Between the sighs of the gradually rising breeze the echoes
of summer voices, canoists, children playing,swimming groups
and the busy hammering of renovation recitations, flood the mind.
Such is normality here with time to spare for the pursuance of peace.
I wish the whole world could sense the miracle of this paradise, the
sensitivity of this creativity.
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