I'm on the wing of meadowlarks. The windward breath of Spirit livens me. Eternity wraps seasons all in one unwrinkled seam. Each blade of greening on the hills that move the traveler's road is instantly in purple: fields of sage shake in the wind. Years are falling. Like bread that fell from heaven, these years are manna to the traveler who sees them dropping,breaking. Scattered and disintegrating, they cannot hold, nor speak, nor contemplate. For heaven knows no such marauder as the clock, no anguished Lucifer in downward flight, no passing hour of a life stopped short. The windward meadowlark is poised for flight. Spirit breathes. And incandescent noon is on the sage.