There's a field near my house that holds something big. Secrets and history and knowledge, and everything that is unknown to me. In the winter, a soft coat of snow covers it like a fluffy blanket, making it look like an endless spread of white. In the spring bright yellow daisies grow from the ground, eager to blow in the wind. I long to run through them and lie with them. In the summer, wildflowers spring from the ground, growing up towards the sun, as if they long to be let free from the confines of the soil. In the fall the leaves float from the trees and cover the field with browns, yellows, and reds, signaling the start of winter.