We took lunch and went walking out to the tree-limned, sun-gentled field. Spreading a blanket, we sat and pressed our hands to the earth, and lifted our faces to the peace of the afternoon sky, and talked only in filaments of conversation which kept dwindling away into the quiet. Wind made a caim around us.
Somewhere, a baby bird was calling, and I felt my heart listening - which is a kind of call of its own, listening is: an essential silence woven through a song. It's always so wonderful what you you find yourself saying when you stop talking and listen. Your voice becomes a murmur of blood, a long slow sussuration of breath, a poem from the body.
And beneath us was the great beast that is the earth, grass-haired, benign, ponderous. And we sat on her back like wild things and went flying amongst light-swamped stars and the tattercoat of spring, fragranced with its old warm magic.