Someone for whom the grass sings Paul O. Williams

I know someone for whom the grass sings, nodding and waving, and who accepts it as a natural thing. Her mare is kind to strangers, touching a cheek against them. Her goats follow people through the meadow, rubbing them and asking, "Are you coming? Which way? See? Here's yarrow and here daisies." The cottonwood over her house rustles in the slightest breeze. Weeds grow moderately in her garden, and she does not reprove them, but parts them looking for carrots, dowsing for beets. Her dog watches everyone closely, not only for her sake but so all will know what a remarkable thing it is to be her dog. He tries to follow and lead at the same time when she wanders to the beach, touching the big drift logs with her sunrich, able hands. Listen, the water is also singing. More than the usual gladness pours out from its repetitious stone washing. We all hear it that way but her. She accepts it with a slight smile. We agree with it completely.

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