Secret Lives

He’d spent so long in the garden that day, on his knees, low down, with the blades of grass and daisies, the small bald patches of lawn, bits of debris, fallen leaves, the little stones and tufts of moss, so long he’d almost forgotten himself. He had accidentally become party to the present which gazed down on the scene with no particular anticipation for life beyond, for all of life was here, amidst these shrubs and damp surrounds. And as he stood up, unbent himself, took a step towards the gate, he was surprised by the deliberateness of a bee that flew in a long, straight line past him to the far corner, a real diagonal beeline, uninterested, purposeful, busy with the importance of its life, while he, instead, had become an invisible bit of garden.

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