Waving

On some of my walks along the gravel of Old Victoria Road, I come upon a swath of tall grass that stretches for two hundred metres. The tips rise above me.

As the breeze blows, the assembled beings awaken and sway together to a song unknown to me. There’s a sweet flow here – each strand bending to be with its neighbour. It’s a loving togetherness, not a forced squishing. And the rhythm in front of my eyes continues way to the left and to the right. The field of grass is alive.

I wonder what they’re thinking … these towering ones. Are they happy with their lot? Do they enjoy the red-winged blackbirds who nestle within? Do they worry that they’re not bright green? (I doubt it.)

As I stand before them, it seems that all eyes are on me. Are they waiting for me to say something? Can I let go and allow words to emerge from my mouth, without care?

And what is their message to me? I need to be still, waiting amid the breeze, for wisdom to come calling.

I have friends on Old Victoria Road.

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