Arms up, stick in hand, wobble back and forth like a rocking horse. Face fanned out to catch more sun. something wild exists in the reverberating asymmetry of this child, this beast, this tropical tree-spirit. He stands immersed in rusty reds and sandy yellows, while sparks of turquoise ring out like the unseen Cardinal's call above the forest's baseline hum. What does he think as he laughs and runs and waves that stick? Or is he simply a blind force in the rushing, passing moment?