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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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You bide near to the squat boy.
He shrouds his voice wobble quaffing the barley decoction, and bending his face towards the cradle in which his minor sister cries and smiles. The amber from his pockets is scattered all over the garden. He lays hold of the flute as the black alder begins to glitter – its leaves are whirled by a stream that comes from the stubble field. You just let your mind rest there on a flowerbed, listening to the starlings, and on a sudden, it is hovering over the nearby shallow, in a dazzling light.
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