Sunday, August 29, 2004

Days That Just Leap Off the Page

There are days that just leap off the page. Like today. This afternoon I went outside. Sat in the sun. Head tilted backwards. Eyes shut. Facing into the warmth.

Smells: damp earth; spring blossom; sun on my wool jersey; cow pats in the paddock across the road; the close proximity of bush. Air shares its knowledge.

Birds let their presence be heard. Ornithological notes floating upon waves of sound. A scratching amongst dry leaves - stirring up grubs beneath a seemingly dead, mid-winter fig tree. The taffetta rustling of tuis. Kereru feasting in the green glossiness of a neighbour's puriri.

The sun went behind a cloud. I waited. And waited. When almost tempted to doubt its inevitable re-emergence, a reassuring warmth melted all distrust. Real-life application? I wondered.

Later, I went inside. Boiled rice. Re-heated eggplant, cooked with chili and cumin and coriander. Mid-afternoon lunch.

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