horse hills

In horse hills

Chattering- an impression given by the glittering rims of ice-scorched grass awaiting hot sunlight ambling toward across the land. Day in, then up, over, then day in, when the same chattering is had among the grass. There is perhaps no language as such that the grass use, borrowed by circumstance, and when circumstance changes, lifted away by heat, all disintegrated.

The wave of sun comes early and dries the land. Quiets the chattering of grass, and fills the morning air, of yet only a coolness, with an odor. Those long hours of day, of hot and terrible, stolen sparkling and little movement… (the wind of course moves, quickly in and slowly out mixed with the scent of flesh and fur; on some days no wind comes to the plains, those are truly quiet days).

Yet, there is beauty at the plains, in morning. The obsessive throwing of light and it’s youthful death, a cycle that defines white-blank beauty. Beauty: an observation of space between two things and the unreachable odds of coming into contact with the observed. After all, to take beauty into one’s pocket is just to adore it shortly and, just before tossing it away or pulverizing it by cobblestone out of boredom, rediscovering beauty in another unattainable. The convenience of the word pair ‘Unattainable beauty’ is that it can be shortened to one or the other.

These mornings on the plain, among phenomenal sparkling turf and polite stretches of wind, among the death frozen, are beautiful just such.