Diverse Grasses

Day 243: The pasture across the road has lain fallow for more than twenty years by my reckoning, or at least I've had that length of time to observe it. The barn and house which once stood at the far edge are long gone, remembered only in drawings by local artists and a few of us old buzzards who've roosted in the area for some time. It sees its share of elk in the springtime when the diverse species of grass are young and tender, but now they are chest-high on me and tough as leather bootlaces. Among their stalks, a crop of Canada thistles begins its war for space. The thistles will win, sure as death and taxes.

The thistles began as a small patch, seed undoubtedly brought in bales of hay when the farm was active. They sprung up near the barn after its collapse, given a boost by the local fire department who used the remnants of the building for a practice drill. Fire assists by opening the seeds, you see, and from that one small area, the thistles have spread of their own accord until now over half the acreage turns purple in season.

For now, you can walk through the grass, feeling only the occasional bite of a thorn. In August, you'd want for stout armor to your thighs. For now, the diverse grasses hold sway quite literally, nodding in the wind and muttering among themselves in whispers.