The flowers are in the tall, green vase; their stems are in the water and their scent fills the room. They still retain their odor — in spite of the fact that I have had them a week and that they are already fading. And I begin to believe all sorts of nonsense that I used to laugh at: I believe in the possibility of conversing with things in nature, I believe that one can communicate with clouds and springs, and I am waiting for these flowers to begin to talk. But no, I feel sure that they are always speaking — even now — they are forever crying out, and I can almost understand them.