Amazing Grass

The end of my black concrete street dissolves into a mesh of wild grasses and mud. Dividing the road and the grass is a lonely fence, about five feet wide with a ‘No motor vehicles allowed!’ sign nailed to one of the two upright posts. White paint flakes off at the touch to expose cracking wood. Beyond the fence, expanding in all directions is a field: short, cut grass mixes with several types of small weeds and eventually turns into lengthy, brown grasses reaching nearly four feet tall in some areas. This is the field.
From the fence, it takes a while to reach the ‘main trail’—a thin muddy line that stretches around the perimeter of the field and also cuts through the middle of it. This trail is the only place where the thick vegetation has been worn down entirely by people and their dogs. I used to be a frequent traveler wandering this trail and I have noticed this field has become more populated with visitors over time. There are jagged and deep cracks running the length of the trail and resemble lightning bolts engraved in the ground. Standing on this trail, one can see herds of cows off in the distance. The black and white dots contrast against the amazingly lush grass and hover near an abandoned shack. Towards the west, there lies a grey landing strip for small airplanes.
Oddly, I often feel far from civilization; however, the airport and three surrounding roads are cruel reminders that the city is nearer than the tall grasses, hills and wildlife let me believe. Tiny, but rather noisy aircraft are often heard overhead. The melodic sounds of chirping birds are no match to these great man-made machines that startle the delicate environment below them as they fly. The birds, entirely black except for a couple bright crimson feathers on each wing, display the characteristics of the red-winged blackbird and seem more flustered than anything that their musical chirping was interrupted by the planes. Aside from the birds, the droning of the crickets is louder as the sun makes its way slowly down to the horizon.
The ground—turning from muddy and wet, to cold and hard, to soft and delicate—is ever-changing to fit the needs of the plants and animals. Several miniature lakes are hidden from view due to the dense grasses. The water filling these lakes are always flooded during winter and evaporated dry during the steamy summer months. The air is fresh and smells natural and vibrant and alive, not choked and stuffy as in cities or towns.
The annoyed quacking of ducks startles the quiet and peaceful sounds of rippling water that is bone chilling in this abnormally cold winter weather. Imprinted in the mud are footprints and paw prints of little critters, dogs and people. A grey bird patiently flaps his wings and hovers high over the grass exhibiting his expert hunting skills. Travel down the main trail a little more and the grasses get taller and one can hear the hushed rustling sounds the dried weeds and grasses make.
I recall a time when I was in an intense game of hide-and-seek with my sister and our friends when we were younger. I had lain down in the tall grasses thinking it would be an easy way to camouflage myself. A couple hours later, it was getting quite dark out in the field and my young self was tired of waiting to be found and so I trekked through the weeds and grasses back to the white fence at the end of my street. My sister and her friends were all frustrated that they could not find me out in the hills of dense grasses.
If one traveled far enough east, the main trail would separate itself into two trails, one heading south and the other heading north. Both lead to the water down below in the stream. Gurgling, spraying, flowing—the stream of clear water reflects the dull bed of rocks and the clouds lingering above in the sky. Even if it is only a couple feet deep, no one would want to fall in at this time of the bitter winter. A makeshift dam creates more loud noises as water races through the pile of rocks. While this isn’t any sort of roaring rapid found in the Great Canyon, one still feels the power of the water rushing over the pebbles and rocks. Dirt dissolves into sand and then morphs back into a muddy trail that leads towards the far corner of the field.
What appears to be a tree farm is seen on both sides of the upcoming creek. These natural skyscrapers smell strongly of pine needles. Rusted barbed wire fences clearly leave the message to stay out.
Once I spotted a rotting deceased rabbit carcass near these trees, ants oozing from the holes where its eyes should have been. Its velvet fur was only covering patches of its mangled body, as if it had been thrown on a chainsaw. Having been slightly traumatized after the incident with the dead rabbit, I finally came to conclusions that it was only Mother Nature doing her job.
This is the field. Not known to me by any other name besides ‘The Field’. This is the field where I have played in joyously for hours on end. This is the field that I tripped on a rock and sliced my knee in. This is the field where my sister and I were chased by a man we thought was going to attack us. This is the field that I can see from the security of my bedroom window. Always there. Sometimes changing. Never dull. This is the field.

--Courtney