Your eyes are as vast as seas. If this then is the case, how can I feel so claustrophobic in those fields of prairie green? The grass rustles just outside the open foggy window and you say it is just like shuffling feet across the pavement.
I remember this piece as somehow a personal reflection more than anything else, almost as vividly now as I did then.
I remember, one day, while sitting on a bench by myself that when the wind hits the grass it almost sounds like someone shuffling their feet, as though their feet have never truly left the ground, and that there are hundreds of men and women going nowhere fast, but somehow trudging by slowly anyways.
I never thought it was a crazy epiphany, but at the same time, it became almost fascinating to imagine that each blade of grass that dances to the wind is a symphony of lives being remembered as the wind touches the grass, and the grass remembering the thousands of feet that have touched it–paying homage to each one in song, even if it is the song of shuffling feet, never really finding a place to go but down.
If any of you have time–I suggest sitting and listening to the grass during windy days–it is amazing how the sound travels, and how it makes you wonder about odd things at random hours of the day.
But maybe that’s just me.