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Lilacs
are sweet by themselves in the Arb (I am the only one who appreciates their
sweetness); Dandelions' bright yellow heads have turned gray (their thin
hair reminds me of the unbearable lightness of being); May apples and May
lilies are opening up (so humble and shy on the forest floor that I don't
know how many people notice them); A slender Carolina silverbell is hung
full with tiny white flowers (it takes little imagination to hear the bells
ringing at dusk); and the old oak begins to sprout at last.
The
river is very muddy - Even the lights from the Huron Towers can't penetrate
its surface. Only if one swims in its water, can he know how it feels and
what's in it. There is always a risk of being drowned, but if he emerges
alive, he will know the ecstasy of riding rapids.
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