It was as a soft spring day. One of those days, early in the season when everything seems fresh and new, ready to burst into abundant, colourful life. The sea spoke quietly at the end of the valley, sifting the sand of its memories and offering up its lyrics and laments, and snatches of melody for those who cared to listen.
Birds circled high above the sea cliffs, climbing ever higher, searching for that which would take them higher still as if, in their ascending, they could transcend this world and soar on thermals of thought, currents of consciousness, off into the light.
Deep beneath the ocean’s blue, creatures swam and slithered and crawled. Sometimes they looked up and observed the disturbance on the edge of their realm. They saw the waves but did not follow them, felt the swell but were unmoved.
In a meadow, beyond the valley, a flower bloomed. Unusually for one so early in the year, its petals were red.
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