Journal 40

December 20 - left this morning: descending a high, jungle hill at 5:30, I saw the other hills spread out in peculiar shapes, mist rising from the valleys below and enveloping the lower part of the jungle in cottony shrouds while the upper jungle rose uncertainly in dark green. Above this were mounds of pink-cloud icings frosting the picture hanging in impossible suspension, while a single sun rose orange over the entire mass: the one candle above a wild yet possible birthday cake (in which, I may add, were half a dozen leeches). It augured a bright day with a hot sun and cool waters, finally splitting itself, not fragmenting but dividing into two: earth and sky, united at the horizon, at infinity. (I write between a rushing river and silent rice paddy fields: rushing, growth, chance, events, occasions for erecting monuments in the changes of a blade of grass, in a son's age, in a monk's age, in mankind's age.)