tall grasses

The other day I lay beneath the oak tree and watched its leaves swirl through the air. How little time I devote to simply being still. I can’t keep track of all the things I’m supposed to be; better to be like the tall grasses by the creek: steady, calm, accepting of the winds. Together they move as one silken mass, a colony that guards the tender grasshoppers and gophers and field mice. Swaying but not yielding—are they content with where they’re sewn? They are rooted; they don’t try to run. Who is their teacher? Who is mine, for that matter?