The little bird leaped on its short legs pecking on the ground in search of food. In a while or two, it will spread its wings and sail nearby. There could be more food. The wings, pampered at the ends with a tinge of black, are a beauty. And then it will glide away miles across. If only we had been birds, we would think and nod. Life without the drift of time, or even less the concept, seems satisfying. The crawl as it does, for long enough a time to cross the simplest path, let go the path or its simplicity, even the next step, so slow and reluctant, unburdened. If only we had been the sloth, the thought would give us another opportunity to nod. Across the bank of a superfluous river, on the timid steep of the jagged hills, we do not dwell there on the plain. Somewhere under the sky, from where the smoke arises, the air smells fuel and stinks of dried roses, we do not dwell there on the filth. We wonder what we are and then we nod at the thought of if only. And this "If only" Are immense and number less for there are much certainty of what we see throughout the day, which unwillingly or soothingly, whatever it is but as per expectation lulls into the evening. Then we do not see things, we do not think "If only" And we do not nod. For it is then that we, the dwellers of a land, blank and empty as our mind, we, a bunch of folks free and wild, shiver in cold; it is then that we burn in the sun and bathe in the rain; for it is then and now and forever that we live with the trees, as the trees, naked yet firm and deeply rooted to one place. 