There are eggshell white clouds and small particles of blue rain, chromatic fern and yellow flowers under a colorless canopy of crisp spiderwebs, a prickly green and pink orchard and pristine grapes on a paper-thin vine, a decaying wooden fence and a fat tomato reddening in the bloody organ of the dense sunlight shards that dance along the muddy creek bank and marrow of mulch among the mayflies, the outer dirt is dark and the color of an animal's liver, there is a drowsy orange fox cocooned in a low-lying thorn patch away from the intoxicated wolves and poisoned lilac, a vast and sweet, inky and untouched veranda, to the left and above in a dark-colored withered and worn-out walnut tree there is a black bird with baleful but watchful eyes on a melancholy twig, a last gaze before it's gone, the tender cush and silken crayon-colored knot of idyllic ivy, the newborn light breaking through the maze of blissful branches like the whispering breath trapped deep inside a magnificent and magical marble rolled there and forgotten by some long ago giant.