At this hour, this still early hour, I think I am the field, I am the barn, I am the trees; mine are the flocks of birds, and the young hare who leaps at the last moment when I step almost on him. Mine is the heron that stretches its vast wings lazily; and the cow that creaks as it pushes one foot before another munching; and the wild, swooping swallow; and the faint red in the sky, and the green where the red fades; the silence and the bell; the call of the man fetching cart-horses from the field - all are mine.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
