We live our lives of human passions，

    cruelties， dreams， concepts，

    crimes and the exercise of virtue

    in and beside a world devoid

    of our preoccupations， free

    from apprehension——though affected，

    certainly， by our actions. A world

    parallel to our own though overlapping.

    We call it "Nature"； only reluctantly

    admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.

    Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions，

    our self-concerns， because we drift for a minute，

    an hour even， of pure （almost pure）

    response to that insouciant life：

    cloud， bird， fox， the flow of light， the dancing

    pilgrimage of water， vast stillness

    of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane，

    animal voices， mineral hum， wind

    conversing with rain， ocean with rock， stuttering

    of fire to coal——then something tethered

    in us， hobbled like a donkey on its patch

    of gnawed grass and thistles， breaks free.

    No one discovers

    just where we've been， when we're caught up again

    into our own sphere （where we must

    return， indeed， to evolve our destinies）

    ——but we have changed， a little.