densely packed stands of pine, the dark green insinuating black shadow set against the verdant grassy meadows and shaggy scrubland it makes the mountain look angular, with sharp edges pounded into shape the pine-writ shadows steal depth, suggesting absence, creating the impression of emptiness, a false void... or so it seems
fogged in at a teahouse, a growing gray of view, this world lacks sharp lines, excepting the hint of: -a sloping roofline & -a building's corner these lines are sharp relative to the amorphous gray; but fuzzy compared to the same line's clarity on a blue sky day now, they're blurred, as if the village had been painted by a skilled - but lazy - painter, a sumi-e master with a melancholy soul
hand-weigh each thing as if deciding whether it's worth packing
The columns of the forest lift the vaulted canopy. I walk down below on the trail that parts understory. Each step through the loam brings me home to barefoot days of yore. When I thought nothing of placing skin to the forest floor -- while letting the woods become me as I grew into it; I would yield my identity. To nature, I'd submit. And in a walk, I did become everything and nothing, falling into a peace at once humbling and stunning.
looking down from blue skies and sparse clouds my next look up the ceiling has lowered and rain is on its way
