Time Travels May 7, 2015

It is easy to lose track of time here.  My watch and my computer tell me it is 11:34.  I slept till 9:30. 

Very little happens outside my wall of windows, and yet, everything happens.  I see the gardener in the small field next door.  Horses grazing, endlessly.  Grasses swaying.  Butterflies dancing.  Sunlight shifting.  Slowly.  I become a part of this setting, and it has become a part of me.

Grasses May 7, 2015

I have never been able to look at a field of tall grasses without falling in love with it.  Wheat in Idaho, corn in Pennsylvania, grazing grains in California.  And now I live amid the grass of Pi.  By spring it hides my house from the road, buries my small car, and envelopes the hammock.

If the April winds have one benefit, it is to toss the grasses to and fro, generating a visual music that drifts in from every window, keeping me company as I read and write.

It won’t be long before the grass is mown, as part of Marin fire protection.  But until then, I sit and watch, mesmerized.