Green pastures and cloudless skies.
The blue above doesn’t look like sky; it’s deep, clear water viewed from the bottom of a pool. Not a scrap of cloud in sight. Just heat pressing down in a silent, golden block.
Underneath it, the pasture rolls out forever, an easy green that bleeds into the shimmering horizon.
Green pastures and cloudless skies.
I’m lying flat on my back, feeling the hard, cool earth against my spine. The air smells of crushed clover and sun-baked dust. High overhead, a single hawk floats motionless in the empty azure.
Thoughts drop off one by one, the morning's worries, the feeling of my own skin, time itself.
The world stays, but I slip anchor. Just a pulse in the quiet, drifting far off the edge of the afternoon, weightless, sliding into the dark rest behind my eyes.