by Tom Carey
When I lived in Nevada, years ago, the roads were not fenced, and I could explore that beautiful country, going wherever my Landrover could take me. One day, around 6000 feet up in the Spring Mountains, I came into a little hanging valley, with good grass. Toward the center a small spring fed the grass and three live oaks. The only sounds were the trickle of the spring and the grass whispering in small winds, a bird I could not see muttering occasionally. I lay down on my back on the grass near the spring and rejoiced. It happened there, at that time, that the voice of the world filled me up, the voice of being, speechless, yet bearing all meaning, soundless, yet more piercing than any sound, a voice more profound than any music, impossible to forget, and I learned then that this could not be described.
Tom Carey lived in Nevada years ago.