All of life is in the garden.
I am trying to slow my brain down. I am watching as the caterpillar goes about his business. That is all there is. He slinks forward a bit, stops to sniff at the air, then continues. There is an ant, rushing past in the opposite direction. There is a storm coming; the sky is changing. I smell rain.
I am trying to rewire myself, weed out unnecessary noise and distractions. There is just me, and this garden. What’s beyond these garden walls doesn’t really matter. I just want to live by the seasons.
The rain begins to fall. I watch it coming down.
All of life is watching seasons, the coming and going, the growing and changing, the setting of the sun.
‘You did not realise this?’ chirps the bird in the tree. It seems he is aware of something that I am not.
A leaf falls, the sky darkens. There is yapping and howling over fences in the distance. The wind picks up. They sense it coming, too.
Afterwards there is just the silence. The rain clouds clear, too.
Now there are some blue patches.