It’s dusk, and the sky is a perfect blue against the trees surrounding me. It’s endless, ongoing; I can’t tell where it stops or starts. It seems so far away, yet it seems I could reach out and touch it, with my fingers glazed in gold from the fading sunshine. Behind me, and just to the sides of me, each of the needles on the pine trees stand out black against the sapphire firmament. Under my feet, the flat terrain is riddled with orange needles, like a carpet laid out for my passing. Before me there is a bumpier road, free of trees, which slopes down in a small clearing which invites foxes and young does to play in the long, wild grasses. Sparks of color are immortalized in hundreds of blossoms, swaying in the wind that is so gentle, yet so powerful, like the soft fingers of God Himself, brushing my hair from my face. Even further from me, there are more trees, black again, like shadows of those behind me. An owl hoots, waking from its deep sleep of the day, and a branch cracks in the distance as the sun slips over the distant treeline, but I’m not afraid. The only things here are what are meant to be here; that is what makes it so beautiful. It’s the like the poetry of the world, unspoken, but so evident. I lie in the bushes, go to sleep with the smell of evergreen in my head, as one world goes to rest, and another wakes its nocturnal eyes.