We pass them by as if they were nothing, as if they were a negation of the grandeur of nature, a negation of heroic mountains and stubborn hills. They are not negations.
Fields lie flat like a book of stories, opened and inviting. They have their own histories and their own stories. They blaze in the tan and russet of winter’s dormant grasses, then broadcast the verdant green of summer. Cut sharply by small streams, cradled by the wind breaks of tree lines, dotted by boulders or barns or the solitary cow or horse or rusted hulk of a car, they soak up the sun and throw their eternal peacefulness our way. We catch it fleetingly.
Fields are our friends who are colorful but who, deep down, are reliable. They change if we look hard enough but still we count them as unchangeable. Like close friends.
They soak up the waning warmth of late autumn and replay it in orange and golden tones. They plant reticence and even nostalgia in the hearts of all who spend a minute or a day involved in a field.