I begin with you, for you are beautiful, silent, and splendid as the western light. And with peonies: they are red, glinting, and still. I begin with trees, green leaves and tall grass, for its surface is direct and undulant. And with the northern wind, for rustling, whooshing past us invisibly, oblivious and light, careless, chaotic, and strong, it is hesitant, determined. I begin with the force and the color of the cloud, its irony, its white, its imposing gray and watchful eye, its wisdom, its need to share, to drift sleepily, it is constant, it is evanescent. And with dusk, streaked gold, yellow and blue and spotted orange, it is so vibrant, and with the mist: gentle, cold, and light, it is on the hills, and the houses of the hills. It climbs the hills, and is small. And with great birds of the sky: the hawks, the doves, dipping easily, graceful: they glide away, oblivious, joyful, their paths continuous, changing and true. And with the sparrow, for it hops onto the bath and drinks. And the dog and the cat, their friendship, their enmity is symbiotic, neurotic and pure. And with night, anonymous and still, and the thickness of the night, and the stars, they are a sense of time, and a splendid, a beautiful: they are.