Foreign familiar. Dry rushes reach shoulder height whispering sunshine into my breath. I break a path like Moses parted the seas. Every piece of this landscape sings with my footsteps; the surprise attack crickets that flit past my face, the steady turtle that mosies unperturbed over crackling pebbles, the smell of citrus-y juniper that shimmies in ripples with the warm southern breeze. Even the plotting ticks I find burrowed in my socks, in between toes, and behind my knees are welcome.
Savannah flips open her dad’s pocket knife, sawing at the base of the thistle stalk. I strip off the prickles, tossing it into the pile laid infant-like in my arms. I can feel my hair being bleached like the cattle bones off trail, my skin being kissed like marshmallows over the bonfire last night. We proudly bear our bounty over to Jaq back near the tent, squatting over her attempted fire.
Temporarily living in this Southern Minnesota prairie, we have perfected our rhythm. Hunting and gathering (in the mildest sense) has won our adoration. It feels so natural and in tune to walk the grasslands, grazing all the while, and coming back to our illuminated tent at the top of the hill. No rules. We have dinner at 3 pm. My dog, Rogue, a dusty Australian Shepard, runs rampant, pouncing on pheasant and chipmunk as we clean Sunnies caught at the stroke of dawn.
I feel so at home here, in this little plot of prairie paradise. I eat from the land, sleep on it, tread it. My bare feet tickle the tall rushes, the veiny network of roots adopting my soul.