Days.

They moved on like clouds in the sky. Some very fast and some very slow. But most of them just sauntered on like horses grazing in field. Time to spare. Time to think. Time to slow down even more.

And it was a boy who noticed all of this. The days and all their slowness and quickness.

It was his gratification in these days that made them his. No one else's. Just his.

He owned them. He found pleasure in them. For, to him they are all clips of a much larger show. A show that would go on forever and ever and ever.

The players of this show being an oak tree and a humming bird and a lion and some clouds and rain and boys and girls playing on some swings and dogs and pregnant mothers and daddies who go off to work early in the morning and flies caught in the blinds and old women reading books at breakfast tables and fish swimming in blue water.

These were his players. These were his masterpieces.

Boy and the days.

Just seconds really, nothing more and nothing less.