Andropogon

It was Thursday and a typical February afternoon, brisk and not above 40. As usual I was making my way around our trail and rather quickly, I must admit, as college homework called in its usual relentless tone and as already stated, it was rather cold out. So there I was showing all who might see, as Gandalf’s horses did, the very meaning of haste—when suddenly I came to an abrupt pause. Why you ask? I beheld a field of andropogon. Environmentalists call it “weed grass” and I personally have termed it “wanna-be-wheat” grass for its similar appearance, and stately way of embodying abundance when warmed by the evening light. All this to say, before long I had run back home to retrieve my camera and was snapping away when a bothersome wind bolstered the cold and sent the wanna-be-wheat to and fro, making perfect focus impossible. And of course, I responded in the most logical and responsible manner as the following dialogue will show. Me: “Stand still wanna-be-wheat! Don’t you have any sense? I’m trying to capture your poise!” Andropogon: *silent* (and if it had eyes it would be rolling them) Me: “For heaven’s sake I’m taking your portrait!” At this point if any neighbor was blessed to witness this spectacle I rightly imagine they must have thought to themselves, “Look at that lass! She’s talking to wanna-be wheat grass… like it can hear!” and certainly must have concluded, before closing their window blinds, that I was a raving loon…. But you see, I do have an apologetic for my behavior, because last I checked, cows moo, fish swim, chickens lay eggs and my friends, if you know anything about wheat, you know this: it has ears (like corn). Ah but in all seriousness, not those kinds of ears, I must admit, or eyes… and that’s why plants are curious for though not being able to see or hear, and though they utter no words, they undoubtedly speak. And stopping that moment to take in the elegance of an often overlooked weed and admire its design was not an accident. To see it shine in the sun’s light and blow in the breeze that made it dance was not without purpose. I saw it was utterly magnificent—and the Hand that made it more so. This, my friends, is why haste turned to stillness, one February afternoon.