August 17, 2011 § Leave a comment
There is something powerfully evocative about the rustle of dry grasses, pop of sweet pea pods. Dried wheat grass stalks from eastern Washington grace the dashboard of my car. My son Aaron was born in Richland. We used to stroll beside the Columbia River through tumbleweed and tall grass where the Meadowlarks trilled like water. Peace all around us.
Growing up there was a vacant lot on our street that scorched golden orange in summer. Grasshoppers loved to hang out there. So did I – with an empty peanut butter jar full of nail holes in the lid. The hoppers were large and strong. Substantial weight when one snapped onto my bare leg. I admired them. Always let them go. But only after I’d memorized their brown speckled suits and compound eyes. Tobacco juice. That’s what they spit. Saw one on the deck this morning. First grasshopper I’ve ever seen here. Maybe it’s time to lie down.