I am sitting at the
expansion of a great field. After emerging from the crowded woods I can now see
hundreds of yards in front of me. The crickets are getting louder as the sun
dips below the unseen horizon masked by the treetops. I am surrounded by
colorful space omitting greens and browns. The grass underneath me is cool to
the touch and the blades are severed at the end. White paint has been sprayed across thousands
of these severed blades forming a straight white line. Man has been here and
changed the face of nature. The severed, painted blades of grass are different
and exposed. I try to imagine what this
field looked like before humans ever made a mark. What if the very ground I am positioned on
served at one time as a place of worship for Native Americans? It is possible that I could be treading upon
sacred ground without even knowing its story.
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