To be Among a Field of Sunflowers

 

On Sunday, I suddenly felt sad among the darkened rooms of my home, a winter’s cold breath outside. I didn’t want to languish in front of the TV, so I drove my car, parked it under heavy trees along a lonely road. I walked back with the keys, a little apprehensive. And almost out of a Ray Bradbury novel everything changed. I walked with a beating nature all about. It was a fine day as if it had spidered out of its web. I could feel the warm sun under a watermelon sky. The cautious atmosphere that I felt previously, among thick draped curtains, crowded with dust, blinked a © backdrop of bright green foliage and river. A gate opened without a lock, and across a field of sunflowers, foraging parrots were pretty in pink feather. A children’s playground in twisted Escher turned bespoke large green ladders into long blue tunnels. I was able to walk alone feeling the tingle of new sounds, chatting honeyeaters in the Melaleuca, a thrum of wafting winds, the steady bumble of bees, and loud cockatoos in the trees. When I drove home at dusk, clouds en masse crossed the sky in painted pareidolia patterns that I would never see again.  ©

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