Parc des Landes de Gascogne

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I thought I was following a figure in white or a white deer. It is the horizon I am following. Maybe it is Apollo or Hermes I seek? Or there is something of myself in this elusive figure. It never gets closer; always beyond my grasp. And I can never catch the figure because the being is me. Let it disappear this desperate following.

There are no copper coloured slugs this morning. Yesterday, while leaping over purposely fallen trees and branches, I hesitated to step on one. The sun's rays reach through the ribbon of flittering oaks, delineating The Way from the pine forest and pink heather grows in the gaps. Finally birds begin their chorus - it was silent except for the distant rumble of Autoroute de Gascogne. But it is still without a breeze and the fern radiates back the sun from amongst the pines.

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