The memory of a vision warms a winter morning. How is it that one can remember something which hasn’t happened yet? This place is full of those wrinkles in time, the sudden appearing of some creature or phenomenon with the distinct character of another world. The blinking eye beneath the hedge, the gilt edge of the day’s first page.
Here the rivers run eternal. They cycle through the heavens and into the calling deep, whispering, murmuring. They are the language which every living thing interprets. They are the undertone of every forest’s hymn, every songbird’s aria. They are the bloodlines running clear and clairvoyant through the countryside. Here there is a spring which never freezes, even in February.
These visions – maybe it’s something in the water.