I'm in the tall, green grass. The wind kisses my cheeks, the wild grain hugs my legs as I walk through the trails carved by affluent bikers and joggers trying to forget the concrete sidewalks and the city they lead to. The sun beats down on my skin like a waffle maker pressing dough between its two hot plates. The creek water flows, I can't see where it begins or ends; It is like a great river in this small park, feeding life to catfish and turtles that rest along it's muddy shores. I walk along it's thin, winding body, searching for answers in the water that doesn't need to stop and take it's breath. The birds are singing to their babies in the evergreen trees, they flap their featherless wings, straining to sing back to mother and father. I smell the sweet pollen collecting in the air, the sugary sap from butterfly bushes. I take a branch from the bush and hold it so I can smell the blooming flowers while I wander through the trails. It smells like home in the spring time, just before the cicadas started screaming day and night; when the birds would begin to sing in the shade, and I could always tell when a blue jay would chirp good morning. This place is more alive than a school bus on the first day of school, more alive than the stadium during Thursday night football. This place has more to say than I ever will; It holds secrets and hidden treasures within the vast greenery that surround me like a cloak. It's quiet, but loud. Hidden, but bold and outspoken. Small, but significant, like the first blooming flower you see in the park, signaling the spring and summer. The wind is kissing my cheeks, the wild grain hugs my legs. I'm walking through the past, but I feel so far away.