The soil is clayey. They say about a clayey soil that it is heavy. It is heavy, because it is not loose. Or there is no air in it which separates grains and clumps thus making the ground pourable. Sand is pourable – even wet sand can be poured through fingers, though not easily. Wet clay only sticks to the fingers. But it's absolutely not sticky when it is dry – oh, when it is dry it transforms into dust, dust so fine it is possible neither to see nor to catch a single grain. It is impossible to do so, for there are no grains – it seems like there are neither particles, nor any specks. As if the clay sublimated, changed at once into vapour, as if it was evaporating.

Not everywhere the soil is equally clayey. In some places it is more clayey, while in other places it is less clayey. This is not surprising. But everywhere digging is easy. Yes, it is easy to dig in this soil unless one hits a tree root, which can happen really often, or a stone, which can't happen often, or the ground is dry and hard as rock, which can happen here almost never. The well was being dug with no problems at all. Beautifully and straight. No dropping, no sliding – a really solid and secure hole it was. Thanks to clay. To colourful clays. From white, through various shades of yellow, ochre, brown, grey, up to bluish and almost azure. Yes – blue. As if they dug out the sky.
What a pity! If they had not dug it out, we would have had here a sky well. A divine well. A heaven well. During cloudy days we would have a chance to draw a bucket of blue sky.
Who had buried the sky?

I don't know, if this soil is fertile. I don't know what it means that the soil is fertile. Does it mean that plants growing on it are the ones we want to grow, while plants we don't want to grow on it don't grow? I'm looking around and I see everywhere something is growing. On every soil something is growing. Grass, trees, weeds, stones, bushes, thicket, colours, sounds, beauty, despair. There is no barren soil. There is no waste land.
Let them grow. Let it grow. Let anything grow. Let them make a thicket. I will hide myself in this thicket like a pheasant. I will be invisible. From time to time I will utter a rough shriek.

When rain is heavy and lasts long, then clayey soil gets marshy, swampy, it sticks to the shoes, walking on it needs much effort, feet sink, you get them out with click sounds, it's easy to slip and fall and turn into a clayman.... In the case of drought, a gentle gust of wind is enough to rise clouds of dust, eyes are burning, nose is tickling, the world seems to disappear slowly blown away in all direction.... These are extremities and extremities happen rarely for such is the nature of extremity. Usually it is normally, no choking and clicking. Neither the world nor we are being blown away in all directions. When the wind is blowing we are swaying, bending and bowing in all directions. When the wind is strong, very strong, then we almost lay on the ground, like grass, like long grass, those high, not scythed blades. But a very strong wind is also an extremity and does not happen often. Usually nothing happens.
So much is going on, yet so little happen.
Is such a phrase a weed, a flower gorgeous but needed by nobody, a healing herb mercilessly poisonous when overdosed, or a nutritious fruit splendidly refreshing or tasteless?
So many bizarre things can grow on this soil whitish like snow.

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