last summer, i discovered a field of grass enclosed at three sides by corn fields and at one side by a nice little sandy road. i sat down with my back to one of the trees on this field, face directed at the sun. luckily brought The Grapes of Wrath with me and sat reading, barefooted, feet in the grass. sound of crickets everywhere.
an inquisitive cricket jumped on one of my bare feet. it sat there, comfortably, together with me. and then it started rubbing its feet. a private composition, the solo player amid the orchestra of hundreds of other crickets, i in the middle of this natural orchestra, eyes bathing in the sun. enjoying the subtle vibrations of the soloist on my foot. things have the potential to make sense, and sometimes they indeed do.