About a week ago, I decided to write a line or two on N. Eastern Virginia roadside vegetation.
Yellow and brittle, prickly strawy grass pave much of the scenery. The broad expanse of the sky stretches at the ends to form an inverted dome that encompasses the grassland. No rain in sight. When the sun is out, the flat fields are well-lighted due to an uncomfortable absence of trees. The few plants that have a standing height that exceeds 50 cm are scrawny and brown. From a bird's-eye view, this suburban savanna is checkered by glistening asphalt. Cars and trucks dart through the black arteries in search of life-sustaining destinations. All this is very strange, because the map puts us within a 'mixed-forest' zone.
I could have written on something more awe-inspiring - like sunrises - or more mysterious - like family secrets. I could have written on childhood, authoritarianism, intellectual property, commitment, cancer, femininity or mummies. For the record, I didn't. But I might.
