It is a gift to walk the path on warm brown earth.  It is infinite grace of Gaia bowing to the frantic machinations of human wanna-be gods.  I yearn to merge with the memory of honored status as dirt and return to the humble and limitless power of being small pebbles and dust.  To be so intrinsically intercoursed with All That Is–to recognize that I Am That now.

Gift to walk.  Gift to breathe this spring-fed forest air.

Sage brush needle out green spikes beside the old browned branches with bare bursted seed shells.

Am I always in between seasons?  If only I could be so indulgent as mud, puddles, droplet on grass, spirited singing blackbird.