I lie back to watch the clouds, and listen to the grass sigh under me as it slumps, forming to my languor, and I pretend I am a chalk outline ready to be filled with colors and shapes from a poets last dreaming. The sun glows hot orange and red behind my eyelids and I let the coolness below and the heat above meet in the middle. Am I rooting deeper into the earth? Or am I flying into the sun my arms spread to catch the wind? I am the sky. I am the earth. I am the sun. The tree hangs over me and the leaves wait in line to share their story. The wind picks them and they float with the telling, and the spinning seeds thank them as they pass. I am learning the speech of leaf and seed, and I too, want to plummet into the recitation and tell the roots my story, and feel it settle into them and deepen. I am the sky. I am the earth. I am the sun. My skin tingles as the light pours and I tilt my head to absorb it all, and I imagine myself a glass glowing with the heat, and the tendrils sink into my veins streaming gold and I shine with my own reflection... A mirror for the clouds, silver white and stormsmoke gray, and breathlessly balance myself along the azure rim of the world. I am the sky. I am the earth. I am the sun... I am the sun.