When the cacophony overwhelms, I soar like an eagle above the Appalachian Mountains.
It’s golden hour and the landscape glows. Film-makers squirm with jealousy to be missing out.
At first, the continual drone of the wind drowns out everything. Then I become acclimatised. There is a peacefulness in the monotony.
The trees are resinous, fresh, clean, content. They do not have worries, concerns. They talk of sap, birds, worms and wet.
I slow my flight. There, above the verdant wash, a piece of barren mountain. Falcons pause in this place, surveying their territory. Today it’s just for me.
I land there to stare. These mountains are a carbuncle on Earth’s shoulder. She’s looking towards the sun in anticipation of the evening to come. She’s taking a meditative breath as messy, multitudinous life swarms on her with doing.
I take a breath, inhaling Appalachian musk as my friend, the Earth, pirouettes. She who looks for the moon is a ballerina on a music box.
The insects symphonise, serenade, sound their instinct, and amid their wild allegro, I feel, just for a moment, serenity.
Crescendo to match the settling dusk, and then utter silence. Nothing dares intrude its voice.
For here, here is the sacred hour.
The daydream is a simple gift.