sometimes, when looking for four leaf clovers, like a sloth along the grass looking only down, one enters a tunnel of wood and darkness, but searches, still, with eyes now closed, relying only on touch. one lies in the darkness as if asleep, beneath an arc of light-less-ness.
eventually one gives up on clovers and dreams of leaves in trees, in fact, of being a tree, standing silently amongst brother trees and sister trees, without saying a word, looking out from behind this new family, absolutely still, towards all other things. being both insider and outsider at once.
suddenly, a book is placed before eyes, and the gears inside begin to move. the tree disappears. a gaggle of three leaf clovers surround one's feet garnering little attention, while the mind continues to spin and hum as a kind of soundtrack towards being lost in words. eventually, the quiet sound of small gears slowly turning inside the mind begins to feel a bit like music.
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