Yesterday there was a walk through the woods area of Stippelberg. The car was parked at the beginning of the sand road. It was a long straight sand road that led the walker over diverse crossings of sand roads and near many woods parcels with each an own character and atmosphere. Stippelberg was maintained by foresters and some parcels in the woods consisted of predominantly coniferous trees where other parcels gave ground for broadleaf trees to root and grow.
It was a warm summer day. The sun was high and made the temperature delightfully warm, and the still reasonably strong and cooling wind blew hardly any cloud through the clear blue sky.
It was only at the second crossing on the long sand road that the consciousness was overwhelmed by a great delightfulness. High broadleaf trees straight ahead waved their branches and their leafs rustled in the strong wind. The rustle of the few trees nearby spread from the crossing out over the woods and the rustle became a soft and endless whooshing. It was a wavy whooshing, moderate in the base, but in the wave movement leading to a powerful climax that in its turn then quickly lost itself in a modesty. Sometimes there were intense peaks in the whooshing that intensified the whole. There standing on the crossing did the whoosh waves fade the leafs and the trees into a not being present, and engulfing the body did they also evaporate the personal I into the delightfulness of the soft endless whoosh waves. There was nothing but that. Nothing but an eternal and endless waving of delightful, delightful whooshing. Broadleaf trees in the woods were the conductors of the ocean of oblivion.