#persepctive

7.

Sometimes in late summer I won't touch anything, not the flowers, not the blackberries brimming in the thickets; I won't drink from the pond; I won't name the birds or the trees; I won't whisper my own name.

One morning the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident, and didn't see me—and I thought:

so this is the world. I'm not in it. It is beautiful.