Chrisonomicon

Thursday, June 7, 2001

"It's beautiful."

The words, birthed from his lips, grew fleshy coveryings and fluttered into the branches above. We stood under a great, dripping canopy. Pulling the hoods of our ponchos off our heads, we looked up. The light filtering through the leaves and vines was impossibly green, brilliant. His damp hands were equally beautiful.

Stepping ahead into the marshy undergrowth, I gently pulled him along, our arms a teather. We stepped slowly, in sync, out of sync, and matched pace again, all the while stirring up the ancient smells of the forrest. The freshly disturbed ground offered up an intoxicating scent of dirt and secrets.

Eventually, the dewy forest broke over a rocky cliff that hung from unseen strands of sky. Horizon to horizon, lakes and forest and plains and clouds stretched under us. I sat on an outcropping that pleaded for company and, taking my lead, he sat next to me, silently drawing his knees under his chin. I rested my head on his shoulder and breathed in the world.