When I was young, in the back seat of my mothers blue Honda civic, I’d catch a whiff of that sweet smelling earth kicked up from the mowers cutting the grass. No matter what was happening in that car, or in my head, the scent of split blades of green sliced through me and paused my very mind, connecting me right to the present.

I think it’s why I can sit for hours next to the chicken pen and listen to them flap their feathers in the hopes of one day soaring off. Soft moaning clucks break up the silence of my field.

I’m writing this, sitting on the pavement outside of a small donation center. It looks strange, as the sun hits my skin.

Just be still. Hear the wind rustle the leaves, follow the clouds across the sky, sit under the tree for shade.

I don’t know where this moment will take me. Maybe nowhere at all. Oh the warmth consumes me.