Sitting， facing the sun， eyes closed. I can hear the

    sun. I can hear the bird life all around for miles.

    It flies through us and around us， it takes up all

    space， as if we were not there， as if we had never

    interrupted this place. The birds move diorami-

    cally through our heads， from ear to ear. What

    are they doing， singing in this luminous² fall. It is

    marvelous to be so alone， the two of us， in this

    garden desert. Forgotten， but remembering

    ourselves as no one will ever remember us. The

    space between the trees， the bare ground-sand

    between them， you can see the land's skin which

    is so much home. We cannot buy or sell this

    marvelous day. I can hear the sun and， within

    the sun， the wind which comes out of the world's

    lungs from immeasurable depth； we catch only

    a distant echo³. Beyond the birds there are per-

    sons carrying their names like great weights.

    Just think： carrying X your whole life， or Y， or Z.

    Carrying all that A and B and C around with you，

    having to be A all the time， B， or C. Here you can

    be the sun， the pine， the bird. You can be the

    breathing. I can tell you， I think this may be

    Eden. I think it is.