Where one moves
among trees
that are responsive
to ancient rhythms,
quietly growing,
feeding bugs,shedding leaves,
where decline and decay
replenish the earth ...
Where man's restless,
insistent, compulsive force
is not unknown
but rare ...
and incidental ...

A place where the far end of the road fades into a hush of supple stems, cushioning leaves, frosted stones ...
Where, from the harsh frenzy of roaring vehicles plunging along intersecting
concrete sluiceways, we find our way to diminishing ruts that wander at last into grassy woodlands, and where vague animal trails trace meandering routes among mossy rocks, brambles, bracken ...
Where our presence defers to the fussing of crows, rustle of leaves, companionship of mousey squeaks, hum of hornets, glisten of drip water, those quivering droplets wherein, peering closely, we see reduced reflections of ourselves,
shivering ...
Where, when we die, our spirits will come to frolic, whispering, with elves and other significant creatures such as the winking fire-flies which twinkle in our meadow's gloom even as, overhead, myriad glints glimmer in an infinity beyond sight through the uttermost reaches of a dark and starry, starry night.