Rippling in the breeze, swaying in the sunshine, hiding ants that crawl all over you arms and paper as you’re writing.
Fluffy and soft looking, scratchy and spiking feeling, grass plays a mean joke on you.
Grass favors ticks and fleas, sheltering them when they latch on a host and trade your precious blood in exchange for diseases against your will
An icon of Earth, an icon of life, a symbol of economy.
Swishing, swaying, rippling, dieing in the frost and coming back next year…. Snow is falling.