firda
Yellow Grass
Sit and listen.
Wind, of course. Wind passing across my ear, winding whiffling through the tufts of grass. Birds. Maybe six, seven different species of birds, though I can’t tell one from another. Something trilling off in the distance. Crickets, maybe? Or frogs? Insects, buzzing almost above or below my ability to hear them. And water. Always water. Water lapping, urging and unrestful, insistent.
Sit. And listen. The sounds heard at the water’s edge are explanations and advice, prayers and promises, innuendos and allegations for those willing to sit and listen.
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