Date: Thu, 7 Aug 1997 08:29:58 -0500 From: Phanny Subject: SUB: CONTEST: GRASS GRASS And grass, like small feet following. The tussock moves with tremulous grace as the wind shivers a unison of blades. You lie on your side and laugh as the lengths of green tickle your nose, and ask me if there are invisible people running over the hillside. I tell you, yes. Invisible people. Bodies of glass, eyes ofsunshine, hearts of mist and shadows and moonlight. When they run and play, the grass moves. See them? You wrinkle your face and squeeze your eyes tightly, squinting to see. You sigh, tell me you don't see them. Of course you don't, I say. They're invisible, after all. Can I smell them? Before I can answer, you're nose down in the grass, sniffing. Be careful of bugs. You sneeze and rub your nose with the back of your dirty hand. You were when we left the house. How did you get so smudged with grime? Visible giggles left over from our time at the play park. Clouds cover the sun. Time to go home, I say, and you put on your best ever pout. Come on. There's always tomorrow. So we leave with the wind and the grass like small feet following.