The green plants with all the insects, alas we have become selfish. He threw his beer glass down and stormed out, determined to make a difference. He knew he wasn’t living right. That we had been lured into an easy way of life, but had missed the shades of green, the bees pollinating the flowers, the small roots expanding into a giant. The transforming, morphing of the world. One shape to the next, a small seed to miniature leaves, to an adolescent to a full tree. How does it know what form to fill, what shape to become? He reached out and grabbed reality and promised to never let it go. To hold onto it no matter the storms that may brew or the evil that may grow. Allow it to evaporate and glide into the blues skies, the swaying trees. The infinite depth of the wind rustling the bamboo, the stream flowing through its porous roots. He gave himself to the land, it could no longer lay external to him. He became part of it. He had come home.