In a natural shelter of ash, alder and wild olive they pass the night.
This equine bower is redolent with their smell, their footprints and the memories of horse.
It is the same with all life if we can but see.
Birds, insects and animals, even the flowers have their patterns of movement and being.
So do we, and our sapient tragedy is that this freedom is denied beneath suit, shoe and dress.
For the ecology there is only here, now, manifesting within the great mystery.
Everything else, every idea, story, construct and belief, even time itself is no more than a fairy tale of this sapient mind, a byproduct of our tool making skills.
Photo courtesy of the author.