The future does not exist.

It is a wish, a dream, a ring of droplets sparkling in a spider’s web after
the clouds have passed.

It is rain, running water, the river that floods the valley, urging the
lilies to bloom and scouring gold from the beds of gravel and driving the
deer to the high mountain meadows where the hunt is made complex by
sublimity and spring snow.

The past does not exist.

It is a myth, a dream, a ring of ancient stones on the plain; it is chert,
granite, flint; it strikes a spark and the forest burns.

But the trees remember their claim upon the land.

They grow tall and we hew them for timbers to build a home not far from
the river, with the mountains in view, planting lilies, sketching clouds,
panning for gold, praying for rain, running from fire, fearful of blood,
dreaming of deer, wishing on stones.

It is the house of this moment.

We live in it now.