Dawn was slow in coming; the stars were still brilliant and the trees were still withdrawn; no bird was calling, not even the small owls that rattled through the night from tree to tree. It was strangely quiet except for the roar of the sea. There was that smell of many flowers, rotting leaves and damp ground; earth was waiting for the dawn and the coming day; there was expectation, patience and a strange stillness. That stillness was love; it was not the love of something or of someone, the image and the symbol, the word and the pictures. It was simply love, without sentiment, without feeling. It was something complete in itself, naked, intense, without root and direction.
The sound of that faraway bird was that love; it was the direction and distance; it was there without time and word. It wasn’t an emotion that fades and is cruel; the symbol, the word can be substituted but not the thing. Being naked, it was utterly vulnerable and so indestructible. It had the unapproachable strength of that otherness, the unknowable, which was coming through the trees and beyond the sea. It was the sound of that bird calling out of the emptiness and the roar of the sea, thundering against the beach.
Love can only be in utter emptiness. The graying dawn was there far away on the horizon and the dark trees were even more dark and intense. There was death of everything known and the flowering of the unknown. The stars had faded and the clouds were awake with the coming sun.