Struck by the beauty of sparrows lighting in the tree, mesmerized by the flash of water forks branching from great ocean roots, astounded by the forms of stones resting among others. There, in between creeks and white crystal prisms settle the seeds swept and pressed by winter winds into deep womb forges from which one ray of her son shall call the lost back from under her white gown. All that which is within the bounds of shells can not remain, for no thing of matter is made to last. And so it is that I see what I see in the shapes and lines of the faces of all beings in all forms, human and non.
