Sometimes it is worthwhile getting down to grass level. It has been a hot day; the light is burning, but down in the grass it is cool. There is clover and moss, a little yellow-flowered plant which grows close to the ground whose name I do not know and do not want to. The clover flowers are just forming, tomorrow they will be in full bloom, attracting bees and flies and other crawly insects. I love the smell of clover. It is not there yet, but tomorrow it will be so I know I will be down in the grass then again. The cut grass spikes my neck and tickles my back; it is sharper than I remember though I think that’s because my memories were of lying down in uncut fields, fields which never saw a mower and in which the grass grew in long, silky fronds which I would clasp between my thumbs and blow on. It made a strange buzzing sound, kind of like a kazoo but less structured. But there are no long fronds here, just sharp little shards and the occasional longer strand ripened with seeds. I look through the leaves, the vista strange from this angle and I feel like I’m in one of those movies where people shrink down to ant size, though I am full grown and my body rests heavily on the ground. I breath in the smell and all the summers I have ever lived are captured in its soft greenness.