It’s all one, and we see how it happens.  The tropical rain is pelting the trees, the grass, falling into the bay, water into water.  We open the window, and the smell of all that enters.

On other days, we see rain in the distance–low clouds, and spotlights of misty arrows connecting sky and earth, choosing the trees and water out there somewhere.

The undulating line of treetops is so easy to trace with our eyes.  Just one or two curves.  The treetops meet…empty space.  The air is tinted pale watercolor blue.

Can there be such a thing as an inviting wall?  The dense and healthy trees are reflected en masse in the bay, sometimes like a tide of green algae, but most often as shadow on silver.

And all this—trees, water, sky–we can grab in a ball with our fists, and cram into our mouths, shove into our skulls, decorate our bodies with it like war paint.  Or we can just gaze primly, or look vacantly up from our work.

Is it me, or is the palm tree in our window taller?  We see only the very top, 5 or 6 swaying fronds and the tip of the stem.  With the recent storms, has it all shifted upward, do we need to mark a new line for our boy on the sky?

Our boy with his messy hair.  We see only the top of his head, but it evokes everything, all our tenderness.  We keep him in sight, witness his life.  And the green parrots that perch, and blend, and look in at us…

I can’t take the parrots into the ball in my fist; it seems too violent.  But a few minutes later, when they’re gone, I can replace them with the memory, and mix that in– a new flavor.

We used to see only buildings.  Nothing could grow from those gravestones.  It rained but there was no sky.  And we, after a while, did not adapt.  We tried eyes with more upward range, retinas that detected the faintest green.  One year, nothing worked, and we were…failing.  Oh, this is what it feels like…

Now here, the few buildings are white and enfolded by trees.  They merge easily with the sky.  The eye accepts them.  In fact, they echo our white furniture, connect us, from deep in the room, to the horizon.

It’s all one.  This massive shot of juice in the window.  The view that brings us the day so we can’t miss out.  This softness that holds us.