Postcard to myself in the rushes

~ Imperata cylindrica 

Slopes covered with them are prone 
to catch fire: thatch grass, satintail, 
spear grass, sword grass-- a field of it 
igniting in summer even when still green. 
And we, as children, throwing ourselves 
into its body of secret runnels that parted 
as soon as we lay on the ground. And gravity 
drove our slick descent until, breathless, 
at the bottom of the hill we stood, 
coated with their milky fuzz as if we 
ourselves had turned into seeds.  

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