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The sky spans. There is grass on the hills. The earth prods at the sky, reaching for the clouds. Trees line the hilltops in boulevards. The scent of fresh moss hangs from branches, dripping in wet fragrance.

A trail carves through the hill, wrapping around the golden mound like a belt. Solitary figures walk over the trail, mere shadows against the encompassing heavens. There are figures seated on the white grass, legs propped up, eyes glued to the daylight stars. Some wear backpacks, eat sandwiches, drink bottles of brewed water.

This land has lived for a thousand years, barren from the world. The trees commune with the wind, yet the chorus of birds fades, long echoes draped between calls, the shadow of a wing a rare thing. The woods are quiet, silent, devoid of the largesse of life. Something is sleeping in these woods, under the gray boulders and the burnt grass, behind the tyrant sequoias and above the sunlight cast off the Pacific.

Time slows to a halt, here. One could imagine sitting beside an ancient oak, and watching as the clouds drifted in fantastical shapes, while the outside world came and went. Heartbeats rise to ride the earth.

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