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And in this glade the black bears sleep, though sockeyes leap fat between falls. Here the
field mouse draws no shadow, the eagle seeks no prey; they spend their while caressed by rays,
and halcyon days are they. Here rabbit and roe may linger; no longer need they flee. For in this
timeless, taintless space, the Wild has ceased to be. (O utside the glade are shadow and prey, are
ice and naked death. There blood may run freely. There the eagle, that thief, is a righteous
savage, a noble fiend. But once in the glade he is dove, and has no taste for blood, running freely
or otherwise).
And in this glade there nests a pool: a dazzling, blue and silver jewel; profoundly deep,
pristinely clear. All who sip find solace here, for this is the eye of Being. They lap in peace,
assuming blear, not knowing it is seeing. And ever thus this pool shall peer: a silent seer,
reflecting on . . . all that is, and all beyond.
(Outside the glade there lies a world where rivers ever run, where ghastly calves in
random file revile a bitter sun. East, the day is born in mist. West she dies: her rest, the deep.
And North—North the earth lies mute. Wind gnaws her hide, wind wracks her dreams. Wind
screams like a flute in her white, white sleep).
And in the glade are tall, stately grasses, sunning raptly, spinning lore. Root s render the
rhythms, blades bend without breeze, as signals ascend from the glade’s tender floor. (In this
wise the glade weaves its word, airs its views. All the glade’s flora are bearers of news). They do
not wither with fall, for in the glade there is no fall. They do not bind or wilt or brown—they
gesture, spreading the mood, the mind; conveying, indeed, the very soul of the glade. As ever
they have, as they shall evermore.
Bees do not hum here; they sing. They fatten the dream. Mellow and round are the
timbres they sound, sweet is the music they bring. Birds do not sing here—they play. They carry
the theme. Dulcet and warm are the strains they perform. Gifted musicians are they. (All in the
glade are virtuosi. They were born to create. Melody, harmony, and counterpoint are innate).
Now the performance is lively and bright, now full, now almost still. For, though all in the glade
may lean to the light, they must bend to the maestro’s feel.
And yet . . . there was a day, long ago in a dream, when this ongoing opus was torn. And
on that day (so the lullaby goes) the wind brought a scream, and Dissonance was born.
There was a noise.
Moose tensed, their coffee eyes narrowed, their patient brows creased. Bees mauled the
tempo, birds lost their place. The grass stood erect, all blades pointing east. There was a crash,
and a shriek, and a naked, bleeding beast burst stinking through the fern, fell stumbling on its