Every way was up

If you lay down in summer under the oak tree and looked up, the dizzy towers of the leaves were all askew, the branches overlapped like too many forks stuck in a cake of baked colors, the leaf strata in geometrical dimples, the darkness shattered everywhere into long bright lines like clay in the desert. You lost track of which way was up, since every way was up. A few twigs lay bare, the sky twitched in the background like a detached leaf, the world hid its usual echoes in the lost movements of the daytime.

You felt peaceful.

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