an old writer and his words

The hawk sits on a branchlooking up at the sky, knowingthis is perfection, lifting upchasing a cloud, floating lazily. The butterfly flits from plantto plant, tasting the fruitsthat nature has given her,perfection in a single moment. The cat sleeps on a rockerthe breeze rustling her coat,until waking for dinnerwhich appears at her request. We spend…