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Very fluffy, good beach read though

sigh. unbelievable. my favorite at the moment: There’s a meadow I can’t stop coming back to, any more than I can stop calling it a sacred grove—isn’t that was it was, once? A lot of resonance, trees asway with declarations whose traced-on-the-air patterns the grasses also traced, more subtly, below. As for strangers: yes, and often, and—with few exceptions— each desperate either to win back some kingdom he’d lost, or to be, if only briefly, for once free of one. I did what I could for them. They did—what they did . . . It was as if we were rescuable, and worth rescuing, both, and the gods had noticed this—it was as if there were gods— and the sky meanwhile crowning every part of it, blue, a blue crown . . . There’s a meadow I still go back to. It’s just a meadow—with, sometimes, a stranger, passing through, the occasional tenderness, a hand to my chest, resting there, making me almost want to touch something, someone back. I can feel all the wrecked birds—lying huddled, slow-hearted, like so many stunned psalms, against each other—start to stir inside me, their bits of song giving way again to the usual questions: Why not stay awhile here forever? and Isn’t this what you keep coming for? and Is it? I’m tired of their questions. I’m tired, I say to them—as, with all the sluggishness at first of doing a thing they’d forgotten how to do, or forgotten to want to, or had only hoped to forget, they indifferently open, spread wide their interrogative, gray wings—