After the storm, the sun appears brighter in the evening, brightening up whatever it touches. Along the river, pampered by sunlight, everything is trying to jump out of itself to be something else. The tips of low grasses are so shining, pointing upward, as if they are about to pull their roots out of earth; The maple leaves, glaring up in the air, are poised to fly away from the branches, and unable to hold a blazing tree top, the thick tree trunk looks powerless; Some yellow coneflowers, pedals transparent, faces glowing and swinging, declare shamelessly, ''We are the sun ourselves!'' Beyond the reach of the sun in the Arb, things keep to themselves quietly. Tall pines and giant woods, in their usual calm bearing, cast sobering shadows over hills; The gooseberries are gone, their armors (a thin empty dry shell now), mission accomplished, abandoned and scattered carelessly on the ground, though spikes untouched and color unchanged; The delicate snowberry, surprisingly, is enjoying a long prosperous life: while some fruits have turned brown, many new berries are still coming with new flowers blooming continuously along branches; The coralberry shrub, stems slim but dense, make a sweet paradise for bees, and if it were not the bees, you may not have noticed the many tiny humble flowers, to which a bee has devoted his life and his dead body manages to hang on, motionless. And you still can't figure out how many types of trees are contained in that bundle of many intertwined stalks, growing out together from the very bottom, with many shapes and shades of leaves. It seems there is no limitation in nature, but will there be a limit to your thoughts?
	Previous	Next