Awakening is a parachute jump from the dream. Freed from the choking vortex, the diver sinks towards the green map of morning. Things magnify. He sees, from the fluttering lark's position, huge tree-root systems like branchings of subterranean chandeliers. Above ground, in tropical flood, earth's greenery stands with lifted arms, as if listening to the beat of invisible pistons. And he sinks towards summer, is lowered into its dazzling crater, lowered between fissures of moist green eons trembling under the sun's turbine. Then halts the downward dive through time's eyeblink, the wingspread becomes an osprey's glide over streaming water. Bronze Age trumpets: their outlaw tune hangs motionless over the void.

In the day's first hours consciousness can own the world like a hand enclosing a sun-warm stone. The skydiver stands under the tree. With the plunge through death's vortex will light's great chute spread over his head?