Slants of rain hit a tribe of pheasants in the field opposite. Thirteen have gathered, Mr has counted. Through rain and a lumbrous effort of cloud, sun diffuses strong light, gives the unwary a dose of starburst eyes. Our solar powered waving cat is busy bringing in luck, and a rainbow passes close by. Maybe good portents, maybe not: if I focus correctly, how can they be less?
I practise my attitude through the medium of words, until it becomes my practice. Always that infusion from verb to noun, from the present action to the future reality.
'It is often forgotten that (dictionaries) are artificial repositories, put together well after the languages they define. The roots of language are irrational and of a magical nature.'
Jorge Luis Borges.