It was in the field.
The knee-high grass was golden, sweet, smelling of wild grains and
seed; smelling of the morning dew seeping deep into fertile, sometimes rancid
earth, drying under the straight-down glare of a glaring, August noon. Smelling
of fresh sweat as I became nature's fertile transport, pods and little tufts of some
unknown species clinging to my heat damped clothes. Smelling of green and
yellow crickets buzzing lazily in the swimming heat, rising and falling in some
mysterious non-pattern of crescendos and ceaseless buzzing rhythms. Smelling
of grasshoppers chirping in some foreign code, untold secrets passing in the
intervals of their silence.
The first time, it was that human compulsion when two strangers meet
in an unknown place that compelled me to say anything at all. That instinctual
subhuman urge to communicate with something even remotely familiar in the
face of all those bizarre species and testaments to diversity. A driving need to
maintain our spot in the great