The tree reached up to the sky, desolate and derelict It's moribund image that of a skeletal hand thrusting from the grave, awash with new found life. It seemed almost painted on to the gloomy backdrop of grey clouds inky darkness smeared across the horizon.
I watched, saying nothing. The sight had jarred into my senses, like a replay of magpies stuttering across my path earlier that day, spreading out from the treetops. And still, I watched. Not the tree itself, we had passed it as soon as found it, the bus knows no scenic route procrastination. But in my mind, I saw it. There is light now. After the clouds, there is rain, and after the rain there is life, nourishing and fertilising, after the bleakness of winter, we see life anew. There is light now, growing stronger. Faint, but gathering momentum. Those that listen can hear. Those that feel can see, those that live can breathe, those that love, can know. For the brief harmony of Nirvana, the union and entwining of the self and the divine, a lifetime's work can be realised. Still, light and warmth. More noticable, ever expanding. I breathe the same air as those around me. We drink the same water. We eat from the same ground. Yet a million different thoughts separate a million of us. A million different visions born of the same source. And then I remember. It's all just a trip. Safe journey. Enjoy the ride.