Bright spring light of evening, the smell of moldering fields, a touch of crispness settling on our cheeks and hands. On Georgetown Road, by the bridge. Searching for wild asparagus.
Nestled among nettles, the green fingers nuzzling the tall grasses around their middles: so tender, almost innocent. And we, the lucky scavengers with clever eyes for the stalks gone to seed or the wisps of last year’s dried harvest.
At home, angel food cake in the oven, but here, in the green, our minds forgetful. Just the green, the fields, the air–all resting on our tongues which anticipate this glory of discovery, this thrill.
Oh, to be at home in the county, in the air that still remembers what freshness was. The air young, like me.