There is a wild section in our pasture where the grasses reach above our heads. Their long stems topped with seeds seem to breathe with the wind; a long breeze exhales and a thick wave of grass washes to the east.

I stood in the middle of it last night, Waylon on my back, and we listened to the air brushing through the leaves and stems of grass.

There is always so much waiting to flood my days and fill my time. And last night—the list was still long as the sun touched the ridgeline.

But we stood there, quiet, breathing like the wind in the grass, learning how to bend with ease.