I went to the garden on impulse today. The sky was too blue, the air too clear to resist. I noticed again the absence of birdsong there. I could hear dogs barking and the quiet murmur of the garden's owner and his helper, the occasional burst of laughter.
I moved even more slowly than usual around the garden. I didn't think about too much.
I did wonder whether there is a more beautiful name for a flower than "Winter Rose."
I wondered too at the delicate loveliness of a pure white feather caught in a branch, fluttering.
I moved even more slowly than usual around the garden. I didn't think about too much.
I did wonder whether there is a more beautiful name for a flower than "Winter Rose."
I wondered too at the delicate loveliness of a pure white feather caught in a branch, fluttering.
