In any direction, when there is no snow, the horizon where I’m from fills with undulating fields of flaxen wheat, sometimes blond shocks and often dirtied bales squared or rounded and tied with ochre twine; and there too often miles of wild green-white grasses enchanted by a nearly inaudible music, the traces of which only discernible as wind. In these parts, one who has seen the wind need only turn and gesture towards the tossing wheatgrasses’ testimony of what cannot be immediately witnessed. Out there a system of endurance, an invisible mechanism triggered to ensure another season’s promise. Ambling into the engulfing body of scratchy grasses, the spindly stocks and darkened loam (depending on conditions) rises rich and earthy with each inhalation as some kind of ancient memory. Eroded furrows funnel the searcher unknowingly through the fulgent, and at times fusty labyrinth, until one can duck down and take to holding tiny wax plated leaves in their insignificant fingers, and marvel at how these tiny shields, tactile like corrugated cardboard, hold their moisture. When its drier, when there’s drought, the simple wonder of how these leaves curl in on themselves, upward, to form a narrow tube to lessen its exposure to what it lacks. And knowing, but not understanding, how its stomata, like raised hands in exaltation, secure succor and survive. A fecund endurance silently wired by mystical rhizomes reaching out beneath the weathered ground brings one to a mesmerizing halt. Being amongst this splendor and envisioning the endless seasons passing, is to understand the slow accretion of that green fuse the poets are wont to pitch rhapsodically, and how this same force, quietly, incessantly, over and through the majesty of our own making sings in our blood — no less a shock at how utterly sublime our dance is to music nearly indiscernible save our entranced swaying. Sub rosa, one might say in resurfacing, rising and wading back through the amber unfolding.