Art: Rafano by Rebecca Weaver, @legsweaver
IN THE SPRING OF IT
Grass so high it’s up to the chest and mounting; you think another few steps you’ll be just a head bobbing on a sea of green.Thick as wading through a bog, the spears wrapping onto legs, entangling ankles.So much moisture you could milk the wetness into a bucket.Feet seem a different creature, far below and out of sight, finding their way against spongy earth and sudden holes, without instruction or guidance from up above.A dance of balance, blind skiing in the green drifts.
A narrow path like a silk ribbon set out against the topography in uncanny unfolding: deer sense through the maze of brambles and bush.
Crows caw in sharp screech. Scotch broom: skinny interlopers, their yellow heads just above the green fence.
If you tripped and fell, would you land on your face or be nested like a bird in a thatch of green weave, suspended a foot above, gazing through blades darkened like a forest in shadow, the sun on your back?
Hands at sides come up sticky and pocked with aphids and ticks.
Large oaks leafed out on the high hills; the trunk and branches unseeable for the green canopy.
In the even jungle of thick and resistant, downed grass; five by eight feet, sideways weighted, rising with the sun: mountain lion scat the clue.
Studded and strewn where the grass is lower on the balder rim of the hills, cast like agates and emeralds and rubies, the minute flora.
Sex is in the air: floating pollen thick in the breeze; stuck to a bee or bird when seeking nectar and carried to stigma of next plant. Fecundity in its rich strategies to carry forward, flooding air and land.
You, a spring in step, an unplugged, unfrozen percolation, bubbling up to fleshy surface as sun warms skin and you holler out to no one and everything.