Through the dark olive green material of my pants, I can feel the slight roll and tumble of the grass beneath my behind and left thigh, a mild Shiatsu massage of a thousand nubby knuckles caressing my body. The hairy, melon-shaped shadow of my head pops in and out of view with the ebb and flow of the clouds overhead. The grass is green, to be sure, but it is only green in the same way that we would say that a kaleidoscope has one color: rainbow. Spiky shafts of brown, taupe, and almost-purple scatter themselves about, punctuated by bubbles of vibrant yellow petals floating just above the surface. Awkward, lanky favelas of some kind of palm-tree-wannabe grass poke and prod their way out of the slightly rumbly quilt of gass, the field's equivalent of urban sprawl. Trees in the distance seem to squint and brace themselves for a wind that is not currently blowing but clearly occurs regularly, massaging the trees from left to right. The singsong pop and crackle of unseen tropical birds fades in and out, locked in a sonic tango with the sound of axles whirring, gravel crunching, and general clinkity-clank of The Automobile.
--Michael G.

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