I don't know how long I slept. When I woke, it was nearly four. The sun blazed outside, and the wind rustled through the leaves on the hillside behind the house. I felt that nothing had changed. It was still the same kind of summer as when I was a child. So eternity does exist, hidden in mountains and rivers unknown to anyone, in the gentle sway of branches, the rustle of the wind, the play of light and shadow on green leaves, and the lingering song of cicadas.
This summer, these cicadas, this wind, these trees, brought tears to my eyes.
