Nature At Rest

The soil is dreaming in a silent technicolour, peaceful and alone. It exhales, gently without the tragic trampling of mankind snapping roots, without the world above and its usual stampede. Gone. Branches noticed it first - slowly having time to stretch, to watch clouds; time to open their barks wide and bows sprawling and luscious, away from smokes and steams and smogs. The sky is blue, clear. Rivers are lapping, sighing. Birds fly in a chorus, circling in trills below the moon’s pupil-white skin - seen at night. Fields are resting their patchwork bodies, their tissues of grass and pores sewn from the vapours of oak, birch and ash. Nature’s legs are stubbly now, growing hair left wild and unshaven. In the morning, rabbits stand tall on haunches saluting the sun.