A Magical Thinker

There is a man who lives in the woods above my house.  I have seen him; once buying his food in the supermarket and once wheeling his bike past the farm in chemin des camions.  Always looking down, never making eye contact.

Magical things happen in these woods.  Tall piles of stones balanced precariously one on top of the other will suddenly appear in the river bed creating a Japanese tableau out of the melted snow running down from the Jura into Lake Geneva.

Now stones and tree trunks have been brought together to form an avenue of ephemeral statues up by the ravine.  Nearby is a hut with a tarpaulin roof.   Perhaps he lives there or perhaps it is just a storage space for wood and that man on the bicycle lives happily in a warm house with running water.

This is Europe and no Hollywood director will come sniffing around for a story so whoever it is, is left alone to weave their magic.