on beech logs destined for my woodstove I sat one summer morn, sipping tea, young, robust, with Whitman in my hand surrounded by wild fields dotted with scrub the mist would fill the valley during the night then dissipate steadily away as the day progressed I stood witness, it is a high definition memory if there is a heaven it is a meadow and the air will be filled with the sweetness of the grass and the wildflowers that absorbed the sunshine under the tree swallows loop de loops on a morning that I still touch this very day