A brief shower when the breeze shakes the leaves. This moment, eating a peach and a handful of raspberries, out back in the soft morning light, poised at the edge of activity, drawing in the taste of creation, no, that's not right, too fanciful, too grandiose, tasting the flesh of the peach, the yielding meat of the raspberry, in this interval, when all the senses rise to take delight in the delectable world, there is no pain. There is no pain, no sadness, no regret. The self and its reflection are one. Equipoise. Escher's Puddle, without the shoe-prints, perhaps. No need for memories when the moment itself is this alive. Fingers stained by berries, listening to the leaves spilling last night's rain, eyes wide open but just not open enough, their field of vision too narrow, in this interval, this coming to. North of here, in the rich black dirt, onions, corn, beans, sunflowers ten feet tall, gladiolas so rich in color they hurt the eyes under a bright sun. And over the rich black dirt, hundreds of swallows.
There are no aches, no heartaches. No disappointments, no deviltry. Look at the wet soil, you animal, just for a moment. Shake and stretch and breathe. Your own spoor. This is not meditation. This is beyond meditation. The one act of forgetting you are permitted. You'll never remember exactly what it feels like. Instead, you'll go inside and write about it. And then you'll be gone.