my meadow
Entering the meadow is always a religious experience. The sun is blinding me and the carrot flowers look like waves of scented snow as I waddle through them. This is the last piece of ground covered in roots. The uneven land of yore.
I don't want to go to the top of the hill. I do not want to expose myself. I'd rather lay on the way up, at an angle.
I touch the humid soil and try to make space for myself. I apologize as I lay on some flowers, crush some grass. As soon as my head touches the ground I fear a worm will enter it. It wouldn't find much. I drink in the air with my mouth open, like a fish.
Percussions interrupt this idyll. Someone lays down next to me. Despite our proximity, the distance between us is hard to close. I wish I didn't have to close it. He inhales the air right out of my lungs. There isn't enough for us both.
I will have to get up, find another hill, taller grass, and apologize to it once again as I seek my peace. I will have to ignore anyone I see on a path unknown. My vocal chords are wrung out, twisted into eternal knots. The world is bright and beautiful until I must defend my place in it. It's okay though; it’s bright and beautiful in other places.