There
in the sheltered draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I
could hear it singing its humming tune up on the level, and I could
see the tall grasses wave. The earth was warm under me, and warm as I
crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and
moved in slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished
vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing
happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that
lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want
to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that
when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun
and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness;
to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to
one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
The
comunion with Nature is a common poetic subject, likewise the
admiration of the Universe. I am not insensitive about Nature but I
think it is more a atrezzo to another thing to contemplate: a son
concentrated drawing, for instance
