The grass where I sit has been clipped low. Just a little higher than the top of my hand, my palm laid flat against the ground, fingers spread. There is a herd of unperturbed, healthy horses nearby. That explains the short grass. I smile. I can hear the gentle sounds of their teeth, working their food. Some of them look at me, I look at them, and they go back to their grazing. Not afraid, neither am I.
There are trees nearby. Sometimes a breeze blows their leaves into a wild chorus, eventually shushing itself quiet again. There are flowers. No neat and tidy rows; only the reckless, sweet assymetry I use to see in the early spring. It makes my heart feel full now. I do not feel the subtle longing to pick them and carry them with me. I love them where they are and I know there will be more. Their scent reaches me.
And I do take breaths. And I do feel hunger. But the hunger isn't pitched or anxious. It is anticipation and the comfort of knowing deeply within, that needs will be met perfectly, at exactly the right moment.