If I could I would write an ode to the sweet grasses that ripple their very being into my consciousness. To the swaying tresses from which that intoxicating sweet smell seems to flutter by, as sentient as the waft of perfume from a passing woman. I stood on my deck last night and could smell the prairie undulating just feet from my yard. I stood and wondered at the foolishness of man, at our constant need to cultivate, trim and shape nature to our own notions of beauty, when instead we could be cradled in the arms of the shivering aspens, letting that ocean of sound wash over, as perfect a lullaby as one could ever wish for. I stood and let the sounds of night billow around me, a dark sheet in the wind and desperately wished I had let my yard go au naturel. I desired to walk among the saplings and feel the leaves quiver beneath my touch. The managed yard a ghost of what I see just outside the fence. The longing to float on sleepy feet into the forest that was quietly whispering so close, so close, was only mitigated by the coyotes hunting, their wounded feigns drawing friend and foe. No victory howls came, so perhaps the little creatures were safe for at least that night, to find the sun again. To walk through another day on borrowed time until the night calls for them again. But oh, those grasses, a smell that truly is summer to me. Forget the smell of cut grass, it is but a poor feast for the senses, when what I long for is the symphony of sweet buffalo grass.

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