There is a color, deep and glistening, a turquoise-black-blue. And when I see it, the world is shining and I cannot turn away. There is a contrast of white on black that is unmoving yet unpredictable, and when it pushes upward, it mingles with its antithesis that always floats away.
There are blades of grass that cover this place. But instead of inches, they have grown and grown and grown. Their black, brown, green stretch far above me, forming patterns in the light and darkness, purpose in the shapes and forms.
There is water, so much water. Water that is dark and cold, water that is blinding in excitement. It forms liquid parades that quietly march through the feet of unknowing bystanders. It forms gushing forces that surprise and astound all who see it. Water produces transformative changes in a moment and through a millennium, both with dramatic results.
Streams push past pebbles, and clouds push past peaks, each initiating a newness upon that which is still. Though it is impossible for mountains and trees and lakes to change what they are, they are consistently transformed. That which can only flow and trickle and mist, initiates change upon that which is insurmountable and unmoving and waiting.
While drifting waters perform the task of bringing forth change, while those that are still, perform the task of waiting. An empty and exceedingly difficult duty.
Waiting for water to fill, blanket, and flow. Waiting to be formed, reborn, transformed. Waiting for the revelation of beauty amidst the change. Waiting for a new season to begin.