And To Think

Field

To start off, I will describe an ideal field.
The field is wide and rolling under a clear robin's egg blue sky. The grass, half the length of your calf in hieght, sways in the gentle breeze and is undisturbed by human or animal influence. Flowers litter the grass, poking up from it gently and swaying with it, all coming in various shapes, sizes, and colors. The most common, though, are marigolds and buttercups, the scent of which carries to every end of the seemingly endless field. It is silent aside from the whistling breeze through the foliage, and though it is midsummer, the breeze is chilly. The sole creature in the green hilly expanse it a young man, tired from a day only he knows about, who stands in the very center of the plain. Though he stands, the grass is still understurbed due to some miracle. It is impossible to tell which direction he came from or will ever go. He slowly, very slowly, falls to his knees and lets his head tilt down to stair at the cool damp grass covered earth beneath him. His head goes back up and then over, looking up rather than down as he throws himself backwards with a soft thud as he hits the ground and bends the blades of emerald he lay in. His arms go out to either side of his chest and his knees unfold so he may lay his legs straight. He moves once more to be in the position of a child soon to make a snow angel, then closes his eyes and imagaines a different field, very similar, but not the same.