From the Cretaceous
Right below me lies the coast, its cliffs being patted gently by the waves, with the wind blowing off-shore. Do animals also have roads? I do not know whose footsteps formed the broad path where I walk. At the left, the view opens into a wide, gently curved valley; in the far distance a ridge, and above it a tantalizing sun. Speedy clouds cross the sky. The wind coming from out of the valley takes my breath away. Millions of dark green rush stems—or is it fern?—as far as the eye can see. The wind pushes them down, they are as long as fishing rods, with no leaves. Their silvery spikes as sharp as agaves, pointed towards me. When the shadow of a cloud flits over the undulating fields and takes the shine from this army of deadly lances, I can see the ground for a moment. There is no path. Does it matter what happens to me in the Cretaceous? Anyway, I wrote this down, and now I leave the path and turn left, down the valley. I walk against the wind, in the direction of the spikes which now must decide themselves to pierce the forehead and the chest of a homo sapiens.