Moving Right Along

As the Two Hundred Acre Wood goes dancing madly into summer, I am sharing a few other favourite photos, images which were cherished at the time they were taken, but were never published in these blog entries for one reason or another. Here are shaggy green moments of perfect contentment captured at the cusp of the seasons and revisited now at the end of May as I make ready to to consign spring's images to a DVD and put them away in the library.

There is so much grandeur in the north woods that try as I might, I could never get it right or get it all onto these pages, and these images of the Northern Blue Violet, Greater White Trillium, Wild Oats, Yellow Lady's Slipper and Columbine are a just small scrap of this spring's wanderings.

Fledglings and Eggs

Wandering away from the trail yesterday morning, I saw a small movement in the shadows and went off to investigate as I always do, wading through deer flies, dense brambles and leafy thickets to reach the place where there had been a small winged agitation. Sitting comfortably (and perfectly camouflaged) among the prickly junipers under a gnarled maple was a fat freckled infant robin, intent on pretending that she (or he) was invisible, and that I was somewhere else entirely. The little robin's siblings were safely perched high on a branch nearby, but the parents were frantic and hysterical and making no attempt at pretense whatsoever - I clicked one fast and fuzzy image and departed quickly.

As we were closing the gate for the night, the hen turkey who is incubating her clutch of eggs in a deep hollow by the cedar along the fence appeared as if by magic from the shadows under the tree. She flew off up to the oak groves on the ridge to feed on catkins and last autumn's acorns, so I observed the old horation maxim of carpe diem and captured a hasty photo of her nest and eggs. Fourteen little turkeys will be racing about in the front meadow in a week or two, and how I love the thought of their first happy explorations.

In the Greenwood

It was green in the Lanark woods yesterday - there was a such a wealth of green on display everywhere I rambled that it defies description entirely. Whenever I hear from globetrotting acquaintances about how green some other corner of the planet is, I find myself thinking of these great trees on my Two Hundred Acre Wood, and I always wonder if any place on the planet could be a richer green than my native place at this time of year. I think not, but then I am enchanted by this northern wildness and besotted by its myriad gifts.

These greens are a marvel, as are the golds of late summer, the reds and russets of autumn, the whites and crystalline blues of deep winter. The eyes are passionate, and they find colours, textures and patterns everywhere in the highlands, at every time of day and in every season. This earth, these stones and trees are astonishing natural creations, and what an gift it is to be walking in these hills. If there is anything better than this, I can't think of it.

Jewels in Late May Stillness

Yesterday, the Two Hundred Acre Wood was a place of dazzling sunlight and brilliant green, with speckled pools of leafy shadow tucked in here and there. There were new ash, hickory, maple, beech and oak trees coming up everywhere I walked, and there were the gurgling sounds of rainwater flowing in newborn serendipity streams, over the hill and not far from the trail.

The trail was littered with the fallen pink petals of expired trilliums, but oh how the Columbines were blooming - this is the last weekend of their riotous spring profusion, and they were everywhere, like jewels in the flowing green.

I Am From

I am from rugged highlands, old stones and boreal forests, from Sunlight soap, piano keys, cellos and beeswax candles, from quiet leafy hollows and clear water flowing down the hillside.

I am from the lost villages sleeping under the river, from currants and blackberries, from railway trains rumbling in the night and flocks of wild geese silhouetted against the moon.

I am from cedar rail fences, meadowsweet, maple leaves and acorns, from columbines and wild orchids blooming green and gold in hidden places.

I am from gypsies, farmers and warriors, from poets and gardeners, from gatherers of wild rice, wanderers in the wild wood and dancers under the moon, from wandering lineages who heard the music of what happens and set out on adventures great and small, travelling by the stars.

I am from obdurate self-sufficiency, frugality, patience, forbearance and laughter.

From the belief that the world is full of stories and one should listen for their hidden music, that one should do unto others as she would have done them do unto her, that one should practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty, that one gets out of life what she puts into it and more, that starting one's day mindfully and with thanks is the best way to begin.

I am from mass goers, monastics and solitary seekers, from practitioners of the great silence, meditators, worshippers in groves, chanters of mantras and ritual makers.

I'm from numberless generations of wise women of many ancestries who stand behind me now and walk beside me singing as I go along this trail. I am from fiddleheads, honey and wild mushrooms, from apples, fresh garden tomatoes, cilantro, chipotle peppers and rice.

From sunlight, drifting clouds and twilight, from timber wolves, wide vistas of snow and the Aurora Borealis, from the Old Wild Mother and her endlessly evolving seasons: spring, summer, autumn and the long northern winters.

I am from books, libraries and reading glasses, from art, canvas, paintbrushes and photography, from blank journals and handmade paper, from old oak furniture, earthenware and my grandmother's silver, from birdsong, windbells and mourning doves cooing on the rooftop at dawn. I am from magic, contentment, stillness and listening.

Kudos, thank yous (and wild orchids) to Endment who posted so beautifully about this yesterday and got me thinking about doing something similar (but not as thoughtful and eloquent of course).

The Old Guy in the Garden

His name is Hotei, and he is our garden Buddha, laughing guardian of the abundant greenery behind the little blue house in the village. An old friend, he spends every spring, summer and autumn sitting there patiently among the lilies and the violets, and beaming out around the garden with a heart as wide as the world and a smile which encompasses everything he sees.

The Buddha in the garden always makes me smile no matter what sort of day I am having, and he is a reminder of what is really important. Cassie greets him affectionately whenever she goes outside, and it is interesting to note that the furred and feathered creatures who visit us seem to enjoy Hotei's companionship as much as we do. We simply can't imagine our garden without him, and I suspect that neither can they.

Nature

This week, the theme at Mama Says Om is "Nature in the City".

To Look at Any Thing

To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say,
"I have seen spring in these
Woods," will not do - you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.

John Moffitt

Crossings Great and Small

Road signs here still have a long way to go before they will match a roadside offering which I saw years ago in Cyprus during the wine pressing season. "Caution, road slippery with grape juice", said that Cypriot sign in painstaking upper case letters which meandered like the island hills, up and down and all around the square of plywood chosen for the spontaneous roadside admonishment.

As far as I know, there are no vineyards in Lanark County, but our signs also make for good reading and some amusement when driving along in the countryside. More importantly, they are a reminder in spring to watch for hordes of turtles and frogs crossing rural lanes recklessly in the throes of their desire to proliferate.

It doesn't bother me in the least to pick up frogs, snakes and mud turtles large and small and carry them off the road to safety, but at this time of year, I keep a stout length of wood in the boot of the car - it's a useful implement to have close at hand when one is trying to nudge a truculent mother Snapping Turtle out of the center of the road and back to safety in her swamp or beaver pond, or more often just to the other side of the road to lay her eggs.

I admire the great snappers immensely, for their long, scrappy and distinguished tenure on this island earth, for their formidable size and daunting appearance, for their fearlessness and their forthright attitude, for their refusal to be swayed from their chosen path of motherhood in spring.

Every year, scores of mother snappers are killed by motorists driving along country roads at high speeds, and that breaks my heart wide open — in spring, we never drive by a snapper in the road without stopping to assist her on her journey. Although I was not born in the year of the turtle, I feel kinship with these fierce and resolute creatures — they are one of the Old Wild Mother's most remarkable creations, and they have been here forever.

Early Morning Thoughts at the Beaver Pond

Be like the wild orchids dwelling in their element.
Find a hidden grove and put down deep roots.
Resist being uprooted and planted somewhere else.
Send up green leaves and yellow blooms in spring.
Fall willing prey to dappled streams of wonder,
to gales of laughter and fields of enchantment.
Dance in your nemeton with branches upraised.

Be like bamboo, bend and flow with the wind,
Curl inward in driving rain, always holding
your fragile heart open, but keeping it safe
from late frost and the weight of time.
Cultivate awareness of your native place,
greet the seekers who visit your quiet hollow,
send out good and happy thoughts to all who come.

Breathe in sunlight, cosmic balm for a weary spirit,
and moonlight, high above and close reflected in the
deep and slow flowing guardian waters enfolding you.
Partake of rest and dreams when you need them.
Walk lightly on the earth, taking from her only what
you need and always giving something in return.
Shun perfection, look instead for beauty and connection.

Take no thought of unknown tomorrows, hold instead
to thoughts of seemingly endless summer days,
the pearled colours of these drifting clouds at sunrise,
the resonant songs of crickets and frogs at twilight,
the creaking voices of great herons along the shore,
the slow turning of the seasons all around you.
Become a wild and bosky song yourself.

Be mindful and remember. . . .

© Catherine Kerr 2006
All Rights Reserved

A Drier Blooming

Yellow Lady's Slipper (Cypripedium calceolus)

The bright blooms of this native Yellow Lady's Slipper were photographed for the first time on Saturday morning from the middle of a deep pool of accumulated rainwater and in the midst of a icy downpour - one of those prolonged northern monsoons which always seem to make an appearance here in late May.

By yesterday morning, the pond (tide pool?) had dwindled somewhat, and I was able to splash right across it. The wild orchids had already recovered their bounce and boundless enthusiasm, and like little solar disks or golden suns in the woodland, they were visible from a long way, right across their guardian moat and down the trail.

During yesterday's ramble, there was a brisk wind dancing through the trees, and all the orchids were in constant motion - they seemed to be nodding an enthusiastic greeting, something sorely needed as my inner predator (nay sayer) has been hard at work in the last few days.

Wet Orchids

Saturday's ramble in Lanark was not just a trifle soggy, it was a "wet right to the skin" exercise. The light rain of early morning evolved quickly into a torrential downpour which lasted all day, and there were small lakes, streams and ponds everywhere — the woods were alive with the sound of waterfall music in unexpected places.

Capturing the first Lady's Slipper of the season was a bit of work. The first blooming cluster of the season is located on a tiny tump (island) surrounded by a pool created of this week's abundant rainfall, and there is no easy way to get close to the blooms. Yesterday, my orchid was soaking wet, looking rather droopy and curled in around itself because of the cool temperatures in the woods.

Much as I love the the shapes and colours of these wild orchid blooms in season, I am always just as entranced by the curves and swirling patterns of the vivid green leaves — on yesterday's ramble, they showed up as flashes of brilliant emerald amid the sodden foliage, quite an accomplishment in a place as sumptuously hued as the Lanark woods are at this time of year.

Of Cardinals and Crabapple Trees

A gift, a gift, a flamboyantly scarlet male Cardinal in one of the crabapple trees in the garden behind the little blue house. Alas, my once fragrant and flower bedecked trees have been so ardently courted by the wind and rain this week that hardly a bloom remains on them, and the whole garden seems to be wearing confetti.

It is raining here, but we are off to the woods anyway in rain gear, "wellies" and backpacks and carrying both camera and insect repellent. This morning, there is a clear insistent voice saying (or rather singing) that the Lady's Slippers are in bloom. Who cares about a little rain or a few bugs?

Passing Through

"Art is the chalice into which we pour the wine of transcendence."
Stanley Kunitz

The American poet laureate Stanley Kunitz passed away a few days ago at the ripe old age of one hundred, and this morning, I would like to honour his magnificent poetry and his thoughtful if tumultuous journey through life. He was a passionate gardener, a lover of beauty and a devotee of the natural world as well as a supremely gifted poet — I like to think that he is tending a garden somewhere beyond the fields we know.

His published poetry spanned eighty years, and it was sublime stuff - almost out of this world in fact, but at the same time it was chthonic and earthy, possessing deep roots and a firm sense of connection — his work was very much in this world too. On summer days, I sometimes carried his book Passing Through to the woods and read it slowly while sitting on a big rock with sunlight dappling the grove around me. Stanley was a fine companion for the journey, for those leafy green hollows and golden afternoons — for afternoons of any sort whatsoever.

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Stanley Kunitz, The Layers

After the Rain Yesterday

Mandalas circling among the Russell lupins and
forests of Autumn Joy sedum for wandering in,
maps inscribed on the leaves of Glossy Buckthorn,
entire populations dwelling in every drop of rain,
worlds large and small for pondering. . . .

Cate

Small Wonder, Great Thanks

Wild Columbine (Aquilegia canadensis)

On this grey morning I crave images which are clear and vibrant and strong. Could there be anything better or more exquisite than the first Columbines of the season? Here in the words of one of the world's great botanical gardens, are "elegant blooms spurred to greatness". The magnificent Columbine is linked by its common and species names to two birds rather than just one: its common name is rooted in the Latin word Columba for dove, and its species name is Aquilegia, from the Latin word for eagle — the names connote gentleness and ferocity at the same time. By any name at all, these flowers with their fine clear colours and their magnificent complex architecture are astonishing beings.

This morning, I peer through my spectacles at these wonders on the computer screen, and I find myself back in the rainy woods, away from the village streets, the exhaust fumes and the rumbling traffic beyond the window. Once again, I am nose to nose with a Columbine blooming on the woodland trail and feeling perfectly contented - this is one of the liminal moments I cannot live without, and I am always thankful for them when they manifest themselves.

Thank you too, for the splendid lunch with a friend at the Green Door yesterday, for last evening's fragrant green tea in a china mug, for honey scented beeswax candles and Shoyeido's plum blossom incense. Thank you for blank journals, creamy handmade paper, bamboo brushes and canvas. Thank you for woodland rambles wet or dry, for the Trillium and Lady's Slipper which bloom in the woods in May. Thank you for many good books waiting to be opened for the first time. Thank you for the garden I am planting this week.

Thank you for these first perfect Columbines of the season.

Where Wisdom Abides

Land is the place where lessons are taught,
where Wisdom abides; where we learn lessons
about life and death from the seed broken
open in darkness, dying in order to come
to life in a different form, and from the compost
which teaches us that decay is needed for
life's richness. Land is the place where we
are healed when no words can comfort or explain.
It is the place where we are taught about
and find community; where everything is
connected to everything else, and nothing
exists independently; the place where
everything feeds on and depends on the other.

Jeanne Clark

The Trail Through the Woods

Sunday morning's rainy ramble (or twittening) was thoroughly satisfying, a long slow soaking wet pottering along the winding shaded trails which meander through the Two Hundred Acre Wood.

A fine light mist lay over everything yesterday, and the journey through the trees was cool, green and refreshing — a wonderful balm for body and spirit. The air was filled with music, with the songs of tanagers and grosbeaks somewhere high above me in the canopy, and the resonant patter of rain falling on new leaves. It was like being in a rainforest, one which is just beginning to awaken after a long nourishing sleep.

The Greenwood: Maple, Hazelnut & Hawthorn

Sugar Maple (Acer saccharum)

Beaked Hazelnut (Corylus cornuta)

Hawthorn (Crataegus)

Almost overnight, my few hundred acres in the Lanark Highlands have turned green. Where there were once only desiccated leaves on the forest floor and glaring light coming through the bare trees, there are now a thousand shades of green on offer — there are delicate saplings, new leaves, fuzzy catkins and flowers everywhere one looks. My woodland has become a place of sunny groves, cool green shadows, deep quiet hollows, gracefully arching branches and blithe ecstatic birdsong.

Yesterday, I wandered in the rain and thought of Wendell Berry's Timbered Choir poems. Here then is my leafy cathedral — the trees around me and curving branches above define a woodland nave and chancel — the vistas of light and shadow rival any stained glass window ever crafted — surely no choir has ever lifted its collective voice as gloriously as the birds do from their loft among the trees.

I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
there is singing around me.
Though I am dark
there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy
there is flight around me.

Wendell Berry, Woods

May's Full Flower Moon and Wesak

May's full moon is the moon of flowers and planting, and as such it also honours natural cycles and the spirit of the harvest — I often think of this moon as being the "moon of growing things" or the "moon of the faithful gardener". As we prepare our garden plots for the growing season and nestle our minute particles in the earth, we are planting seeds within, and we are already casting our thoughts forward to summer days of warmth, weeding and fertilizing, to distant autumn times of reaping, gathering and "putting things by" for winter. Each and every seed is a wonder in the process of evolving and becoming, just as we are.

For Buddhist practitioners, this is the Moon of Wesak or Vesak and the most holy day of the whole turning calendar year, the day on which the Buddha reached enlightenment under his Bodhi tree in Bodh Gaya, India. On this full moon, perhaps we can think about the nature of connection and the manner in which we are walking this path together.

May's Moon is also known in various cultures as the:

Alewife Moon, Anagantios Moon, Blossom Moon, Bottlebrush Moon, Bright Moon, Budding Moon, Corn Planting Moon, Death Moon, Dragon Moon, Dyad Moon, Fawns Moon, Field Maker Moon, Fifth Moon, Fish Moon, Flower Moon, Flowering Moon, Fright Moon, Frog Moon, Frogs Return Moon, Geese Go North Moon, Geese Moon, Grass Moon, Hare Moon, Heavy Snow Moon, Hoeing Corn Moon, Idle Moon, Iris Moon, Joy Moon, Leaf Tender Moon, Leafing Out Moon, Leaves Appear Moon, Lily of the Valley Moon, Little Corn Moon, Little Finger Moon, Magnolia Moon, Merry Moon, Milk Moon, Moon of Big Leaf, Moon of the Strawberry, Moon of the Camas Harvest, Moon of Clouds and Thunder, Moon of Waiting, Moon To Plant, Moon When Corn is Planted, Moon When Ponies Shed Their Fur, Moon When the Buffalo Plant is in Flower, Moon When the Leaves Are Green, Moon When the Little Flowers Die, Moon When the Horses Get Fat, Moon When Women Weed Corn, Mulberry Moon, Mulberry Ripening Moon, New Waters Moon, Old Woman Moon, Panther Moon, Penawen Moon, Peony Moon, Planting Moon, Putting Seeds in the Hole Moon, Rain Falls Moon, Seeds Moon, Seeds Ripen Moon, Sprout Kale Moon, Staying Home Moon, Storm Moon, Storing Moon, Strawberry Moon, Suckers Dried Moon, Summer Moon, Thrice Milk Moon, Moon, When the Ponies Shed Shaggy Hair Moon, Wind Tossed Moon, Winnemon Moon

Red In Spring

All the trees of the village hold out leafy gifts in Spring, but leaves of these red cultivars of the Norway Maple have a song and vibrancy which is all their own.

When everything else around me is green, their jubilant leaves are deep red and magenta, and they always seem to be dancing merrily in their appointed place - these immigrant maples have a special relationship with the wind, and the lightest breeze sets their leaves and branches in rollicking motion.

The skies are grey this morning, and there are high winds blowing around the little blue house as I write this — the trees in the garden resemble a whole fleet of old sailing ships going somewhere important in a great hurry — listing, creaking, tossing and moaning, they seem to be riding the waves of a vast and stormy sea. The entire weekend will be one of storms and rain, something which always seems to happen on the weekend closest to May's full moon, but we are packed and ready to go off to the woods tomorrow anyway — rain gear, "wellies" and walking sticks are near the door and so is the insect repellent, several litres of it.

Juicy Green

This week, the theme at Mama Says Om is "juicy".

New ferns in the woodland,
green leaves of the ash tree,
sap flowing through her veins
to nourish her crown in Spring,
plump catkins whirling themselves
away and falling to earth in a
madcap dance of germination,
white trilliums blooming
in a far and hidden place.

Gather Ye Rosebuds - The Rose and the Lotus

The two stained glass windows shown here this morning are hidden wonders residing in the side wall of an old Victorian mansion on a quiet street downtown, about half way between the complex where I used to work and my oncologist's office. They provided me with contentment during my working days in the core of the city, and I still enjoy looking at them when I venture downtown, as I did a day or two ago.

Discovering the authentic Arts and Crafts windows for the first time was a serendipity experience. Pottering back to the office one day while held in the maw of a thorny technological problem, I glimpsed in passing what I thought was a bit of stained glass above and beyond a high cedar gate on Cooper Street. Unknown gates (and what lies behind them of course) always beckon irresistably, and I decided I had to investigate what lay beyond this one, then and there.

When I trotted through the gate, turned and looked up, there on a rosy old clay brick wall high above me were these two masterpieces. The first window shown here addresses a theme beloved of pre-Raphaelite painters, notably Victorian master John William Waterhouse and has a small insert in the lower right corner quoting from a poem by the seventeenth century poet, Robert Herrick, "Gather Ye Rosebuds". Both photos contain roses in the classic Charles Rennie Mackintosh motif, and the window in the second photo has a minute almost invisible lotus in each corner.

When I returned to the office later, my thorny problem had resolved itself entirely, a testament to the power of art and liminal moments to heal and resolve little issues in mundane life, and while I no longer remember the shape of my problem that day, these windows will be with me forever.

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick

Things Across the Bridge

Across the old Geddes Bridge at the head of Dalhousie Lake, one wanders slowly past the sheer granite cliffs and high gorges keeping watch over the incoming Mississippi River, past the remains of the old mill and the steep road up to the High Falls Power Station, past the leaning weathered turn-of-the-century cottages and abandoned farms and passes higher into the forested hills, ridges and rocks of the Canadian Shield. The unpaved dirt road to be taken is a narrow dusty ribbon skirting the quiet lake, one which is bounded on one side by cliffs and on the other by deep water.

As I went along a few days ago, an early wispy mist obscured the tops of the rock faces and turned the wandering into a fey and liminal affair. This is one of my favourite potterings, a ramble through rugged terrain which metes out strenuous exercise at any time of the year and requires a special dogged determination in Black Fly season.

In early morning, the air was still and blue, the dreaming lake was calm and as clear as glass. The clan of the Great Northern Diver or Common Loon (nothing common about them whatsoever) graces the lake again this year, and they are often out and about in early morning, but they may have been schooling their young ones by the floating nest hidden beyond the bend of the meandering stream on the north shore. I didn't see a loon or one of the resident otters, but there were Red-breasted Mergansers floating regally in the center of the lake, and there were Mallard Ducks everywhere — there was an Osprey circling overhead, and there were Spotted Sandpipers wading in the shallows near the narrow beach and the stony boat launch area. It was here on the beach that I curled up in the lee of an overturned boat a few weeks ago and photographed a Great Blue Heron at sunset.

The inflowing river was running clear and fast, and it went rushing over the stones and through the cool green cave made by the great rocks and the old trees arching over it. There were patterns and shadows everywhere we looked, Cassie and I. As we stood on the shore, we looked like a couple of old wooden rowboats on the beach, timeworn, creaky and bereft of paint, but still good for a trip or two around the lake on a cool sunny day.

Poetry Thursday - Work Song, Part II

If we will have the wisdom to survive,
to stand like slow growing trees
on a ruined place, renewing, enriching it...
then a long time after we are dead
the lives our lives prepare will live
here, their houses strongly placed
upon the valley sides...
The river will run
clear, as we will never know it...
On the steeps where greed and ignorance cut down
the old forest, an old forest will stand,
its rich leaf-fall drifting on its roots.
The veins of forgotten springs will have opened.
Families will be singing in the fields...
Memory,
native to this valley, will spread over it
like a grove, and memory will grow
into legend, legend into song, song
into sacrament. The abundance of this place,
the songs of its people and its birds,
will be health and wisdom and indwelling
light. This is no paradisal dream.
Its hardship is its reality.

Wendell Berry, Work Song Part II, A Vision