Every day when I walk home from school, I cut through a field behind a little local radio station. There are narrow patches which are neatly mowed, running from the back door to a radio tower and from there to the next tower and so on. Everything else they just let grow. What has resulted is wonderful to walk through. (and no, that's not it. I wish it were. That was borrowed from flickr, but I now cannot remember the account. whoops)
One has to wear long pants to walk through there because of the underbrush. Razor grass and poison ivy make up pretty much the whole of it, with a few branches of thorns sticking out here and there. There's a lot of wheat that grows in brief expanses, and so far as I can conclude it along with the thrust of the field probably were crapped out by birds. The most prevalent plant in this field, however, is a combination of maize and millet. There's about knee-high budding maize plants all the way through, and then sticking up in the gaps between the maize plants are breast-high plants of millet. I don't know what kind of millet it is exactly, just that it's not common millet.
It really is a beautiful little place. It's just a shame it's so little. It takes eight minutes to walk through there, and that's only because the plants are growing so thick together, and I refuse to trample down a path. Some people might even call it an inspiring place.
But I do not.
I do not even think when I walk through that field. I just turn off my brain, hold out my arms, and let my fingertips brush over the millet and the wheat as I force my way through this field.
And what about you, writerlies? Any such places for you?