He spent whole mornings, his favourite time, tracing the diamond
points of dew, the wisps of mist, the slowly rising steam; because, as
an artist, he was impressed and more and more absorbed by the globular
tentacular vegetation of the bush; and he planned to spend longer and
longer periods in it, evaporating to nothing but a speckled patch of sunshine, joined by some spectacular mystical osmosis to the sap: his noisy
meatiness, his blood, his molecules transubstantiated into colourless
sap running in leaves, disappearing behind bark, joining the vast natural
embroidery of the millennial order, within a bulldozer's roar now of
ultimate sacrifice

  © 2000