Sitting， facing the sun， eyes closed. I can hear the
sun. I can hear the bird life all around for miles.
It flies through us and around us， it takes up all
space， as if we were not there， as if we had never
interrupted this place. The birds move diorami-
cally through our heads， from ear to ear. What
are they doing， singing in this luminous2 fall. It is
marvelous to be so alone， the two of us， in this
garden desert. Forgotten， but remembering
ourselves as no one will ever remember us. The
space between the trees， the bare ground-sand
between them， you can see the land's skin which
is so much home. We cannot buy or sell this
marvelous day. I can hear the sun and， within
the sun， the wind which comes out of the world's
lungs from immeasurable depth； we catch only
a distant echo3. Beyond the birds there are per-
sons carrying their names like great weights.
Just think： carrying X your whole life， or Y， or Z.
Carrying all that A and B and C around with you，
having to be A all the time， B， or C. Here you can
be the sun， the pine， the bird. You can be the
breathing. I can tell you， I think this may be
Eden. I think it is.