- July 27, 2015
- Posted by Kyle Brine
Early in the evening I waded through the golden grass searching for a place to rest my head. Drifting shadows from the clouds overhead superimposed the sky upon the earth. I took the watch off my wrist and placed it in my pocket so I wouldn’t be fooled into thinking that time was a number, that it was any time other than now.
A single purple thistle stood tall and proud against the landscape. Like me it was a stranger to the place, an immigrant. For past few days I had been waging battle against its brethren, the invasive weeds that encroached upon the wilderness. It was a relief to have a moment of peace with the enemy.
I decided to camp next to the thistle. I considered pitching my tent but changed my mind. The evening was warm, there were barely any insects, and no signs of incoming rain – no need to protect myself from the elements. I lay my sleeping pad on the grass and slipped into my sleeping bag.
The walls of my tent were the mountains that almost disappeared in the distance. The clear blue sky, now free from any trace of clouds, was my ceiling. I took a picture of the ceiling and drifted off to sleep.
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