“When the wind blows the grass bends.” Confucius
Even In this Fierce Place I love the way the wind brushes the dry grass, and when I tread its tired winter youth it crackles like a fire, sending shards into the air, and not to wanting to be forgotten, it gifts me with burs and seeds to adorn my socks at once firmly attached for immortality, that cycle of life where it dies, yet it lives again, even in this fierce place of parched soil, and I take heart that shall rise again like a phoenix from the ash of this desiccated season. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
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