Cicadas singing in the fire of the sun. We used to think they lived so briefly and it was too easy for the mynahs to catch them in their yellow beaks, hold them for a moment, still singing; no wild struggle or hardly a change in pitch. After we learnt they lived for years underground, it wasn’t so bad. Now, listening to the cicadas in the crystal space of early summer, the hill, always there, cut-silhouette on the horizon, we’re happy enough in our grand mediocrity.
We can’t get it right like Newton—we search for patterns to lay it down in best durable forms [laughter]: watch the sea deal with rocks, feel the sand between your toes. Does it matter that Antares can consume 663 trillion Earths? Monstrous weight, that can, if you like, be lifted by the work of bees: a miracle none foretold. Let’s say of art that it thinks differently about the shape of mushrooms we picked together on Saturday—we don’t know anything about them, except two hours of fun in paddocks: the biosphere and adventure ours. No one’s going nowhere but the infinity of our own creative purpose, arriving at a place unknown.