Days in tall grasses, stalks rising in differing hues of greens and khaki, sheathed and ribbed in varying degree, from dandelion and wild plantain, the clover and chickweed, henbit and mallows lifting skyward in their bloom, reaching for rain and sun and the dark, starred sky and there I nestled, on my side now, seeing the hairs on the dandelion stalk, and the ants and mites and aphids probing, rotating their antennae, climbing the world around me in splendid detail, crossing me body as a trail, tasting my skin, the profusion of hairs. The moist cool seeped into my cotton shorts and top where the side of my body pressed into the morning ground and into the grass that rose around me. My purpose was the same as the chickadee and the crow in this place, to be myself, to lay down and open in this moment, in the intricate patterns to be named later in books were for the time being in the morning in the life of a girl settled in a field, awake under a rising sun, amidst shadows and the depth of moving things.

from The Savage Telling of Sister Love