A cicada sets off in the willow above me, and its song travels through such a wide tonal range that I momentarily mistake it for a jet either raiding or surveying the skies
(with the recent (re)viewing of Grave of the Fireflies, it doesn't take long to figure out my delusion).
A murmur set up in the leaves of a Poplar tree behind me by its swaying branches also raises an alarm, as if something's slowly rumbling in.
Through these distractions, I am actually being solicited by nature to see the dreamy rustic scene of the valley - soaked in rains, lush flora carpets the chain of hills in all directions; the flat monochrome walls of homes bear a saturation and sheen (also thanks to the zero haze) one finds - if at all - in paintings (and photoshopped flickr pics); the clouds mesh a dreadful fiber above that will tear open to surprise meeklings anytime; the sun works in installments, much annoyed by the train of traveling clouds; orange, black, blue, and white beaks shuffle among the branches, landing blows on tree bark and earth to knock out some unlucky worm, and they also fill the noisescape with a cheery honey trill; ants march under by boots (and some even make through alive) savouring breadcrumbs from the last of my lot that I just finished.
I feel so badly hooked to this scene that to get out of these I won't without mutilating myself. I realize a lot more things await me to the city I will land back into later tonight, but its like stepping out of your good shoes into something 3 sizes smaller.
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