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Grass No. 25

Grass
Grass No. 25
By Hudson Gardner • Issue #25 • View online

I first had the feeling
Kicking up dust in a square dance
In an old barn in Kansas
Barefooted, we danced all night
While a real band played fiddle, mandolin, bass, saw, and banjo
A caller called out the moves, the reels, the dosey does
The scent of horses, or hay
Which I had only heard of before—
Covered us all
We went out sweaty into the cool night
To sit around a bonfire
Everyone was grinning, some still barefoot
We stared at the stars that night
Above the raging flames
Something so simple
That I could never know
It would change it all
The morning after, we went into a dewy field
Which seemed so vast, bordered by high trees
Plants which we guessed at, some of us knew
What they were
Golden brown grass, brown and deep red
Taller than our heads—
We frolicked there
And then went back to camp, for breakfast
And laid in the sun, staring at the sky
It was free to camp, in fact, I didn’t pay a dime
To hear Mark Bittman speak about food and cooking
He said: this kind of thing is happening everywhere I go
And even though I didn’t know what it was yet
We knew it was good
And we wanted more
Of whatever it was
Something I felt we’d left behind
Last generation, or the one before
Something simple, but deep and rich
As the topsoil once was
But since then I’ve been confused
Grasping at straws
Like so many like me
Not knowing
Where to turn
But following a feeling
Writing, and thinking
Trying to figure it out
So many things
To understand, and put back in order
The only way to know it, I thought then:
    wandering through fields
    hiking in the woods
    climbing up mountains
    camping by streams
    running rivers
    making fires
     and finally, digging bare hands
in the cool soil itself
The only way to know it, I knew then
Was to get lost
In an endless
Conversation
With the land
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Hudson Gardner

Writing & Photos covering place, ecology, and existence.

Created and curated by Hudson Gardner

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