He walked slowly, for he was regarding the trees with wonder, those sentinels with their moving, living limbs outstretched. Ambling into a whiff of honeyed linden blossoms, he stopped, lifting his head and drinking deeply. He had forgotten this scent! It carried him back gently, easily, to his boyhood and he walked on, his face smiling; but he didn’t know it. He was as artlessly unaware of himself as a baby. He roved the hill with no aim and outside of time, stopping to examine and befriend whatever called to him. Near the top, he sat in the shadow of a towering sycamore and he remembered. No, it was more than memory. He felt in his body the presence of his six-year-old self, that boy who ran without thought or effort, every part of him urged forward by his simple greed for life, every aspect animated by his curious mind and sturdy body.
He laid in the long grass, feeling its soft denseness and he looked up at the sun, glinting through the trembling leaves. They were so green! He could see what he had never perceived before: the very cells—the quanta—shimmering their life force. Or perhaps he was seeing fairy creatures, he didn’t know; only that the canopy above was forming and reforming in some kind of peaceful, joyous dance. And he felt there was a channel, somehow, directly between the canopy, those essences, himself, and the whole world.
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