Grasses May 7, 2015

I have never been able to look at a field of tall grasses without falling in love with it.  Wheat in Idaho, corn in Pennsylvania, grazing grains in California.  And now I live amid the grass of Pi.  By spring it hides my house from the road, buries my small car, and envelopes the hammock.

If the April winds have one benefit, it is to toss the grasses to and fro, generating a visual music that drifts in from every window, keeping me company as I read and write.

It won’t be long before the grass is mown, as part of Marin fire protection.  But until then, I sit and watch, mesmerized.