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Lowland Hum

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Lowland Hum

Winter Grass

I'm not fresh. You could lay me flat like winter grass, trampled underfoot in the field out back. Crisp, hard air, catching in your throat and stinging your ears. Way up high, glittering speck of a bird in flight. All becomes a husk：coarse fiber pulled and tucked. Warms the burrowed nest. A rabbit folds herself for rest. We await the crocus and the smell of thawing soil; the secret stir of roots stretching slowly under cool, dark cover. 'One cannot not become simple and true in one day.' Gold in every season.