In the shadow of the trees I often stop to gather what time has dropped, what the wind has winnowed. The small life, universally, performs its circumspection.

Playful, and still, it suffices to listen to the throb of being, the soft ripples of the stars.

Here, silence is a holy bearer’s nest. The afternoon’s light sifts, and everything is a sign. Darting of birds, lustrous cries of fern.

Look to the earth, the way it breathes, beneath the flux of green flames.

• Eugène Guillevic