A train leaves at nine for St Andrews. It arrives late and goes much too far in the right direction. Away from the dimpled dense golf balls gliding in arctic winds over fallen walls. In between yellow field and green. My Grandfather and Ana's house dancing on the edge of an abandoned quarry. A transparent sand lens lets the light in. Millions of years of sedimentary erosion and organic evolution host one another in a symbiotic swirl. The wood echoes the sounds of birds back and forth. Beautiful beads of water rest on wax leaves. Dreams flow within without and all else was snow and serene seclusion.
Perceiving my roots through the study of tree rings.
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