Leaves
It was good to see real trees again, and later to sit under them as a violent summer wind was traumatizing the leaves.
It was good to hear the sound of the trauma — thousands of pairs of neighboring leaves rubbing against one another, each pair hardly making any sound at all, but all of them together producing a terrible roar.
It was good to lie on the closely-cut grass below the cathedral and under the leaves and to feel the grass on your feet and the wind on your face and the air all over your body, moving your shirt up and down and exposing your stomach and shoulders and making your chest and your limbs feel like pieces of wood and your shirt and your sleeves like a handful of leaves.