Late this afternoon, near the center of a large circular native grass sanctuary, I lay down on the warmed earth. The ground was soft with moistness, but not damp; the grass no taller than a golf green. The autumn sun was pushing out gold.
I lay on my back and looked up into a blueness where angels must surely live and where painters could only hope to live.
“Oh, my god,” I said. “Oh, my god.”
How many more days in the years that I have left will I be graced to bear witness to such wonder?
More importantly, though, how many of these days will I allow myself to lay down and look up?
I don’t want to squander a moment. I want to savour each golden ribbon caressing each black cloud.
I want love to ooze over me.
