This morning rose in pink. The pinking of Pigasus completed. He now hangs to dry and possibly contemplate his purpose ~ that of a Buddha Birthday Party Pinata. Or perhaps he "knows nothing" but only the moment; the feel of cool air drying the paint on his piggy body, the fresh smell of the damp garden, the sky light then darker as the sun slips behind clouds in the moment of being. The fast flutter of a hummingbird dipping into the feeder for the sweet nectar offering, then pausing, suspended by vibration, to see the pinkness of the dangling Pigasus. Perhaps, his pretend piggy ears hear the gentle tinkle tinkle of the metal wind chimes complimented by the tuk tuk of the wooden bamboo ones.
Or perhaps not.
All I sense is all that I imagine Pigasus perceives. As Pigasus arose from the gift of imagination, there is no separation between the imaginer and the imagined ... all the suchness of now.
... only task left is to give styrofoam wings painted feathers.