Each twist of bird and clover winds so cunningly into a sheen of wing and figured leaf. Indigo, ground lapis lazuli, dark ochre, cochineal bleed across each page; so worlds are wrung, with a deft touch of wolf's hair, into this tiny Eden. It's enough to make us forget the late spring snow outside, the slippery pavement and faintly flowering bush. Here is a secret refuge. For Adam and Eve everything, everything waits on their pleasure—light, darkness, and dazzling color, the curve of hand on hip or breast. At night the fields whisper with hidden life; they take the cool of the evening in sweet-smelling bowers, neither looking forward nor back to the time before creation. The tree-line shivers with their every indrawn breath.
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