By Emily Brisse

May 15, 2023


All along the creek trail, the grasses were taller and thicker than we’d ever seen them, the tops brushing our foreheads, even my husband’s, the bottoms obscuring the path, even for the children, their small bodies still so close to the earth, but we all kept walking, reminding each other to hold out our arms, sense our next steps, which we did, pressing forward in a weaving line, eyeing black-eyed Susans, nodding at nodding cattails, me pausing, blinking into the bending light, then rushing to keep up, and all the while the wind ran wild over everything, great gusts of wind, an elemental mix of hum and roar, and with one more tip of my head, the sound became more than sound, it traveled inside, it lifted me up, and there I was then, parallel with the clouds, my spirit rushing like a unfenced horse over the land as it most likely looked a hundred years ago, when there was no me, or us, or any concerns about schedules or buying milk before the current gallon ran out, a hundred years ago, a thousand, the grasses for horses and deer and red-winged blackbirds, for coyotes sniffing out the best trail, the self-same hard-packed one I eventually returned to, that I could feel instead of see, below, where my body waited for me, among the others, the grasses rustling all around—like wings.


Emily Brisse's writing has appeared in publications including the Washington Post, The New York Times, Creative Nonfiction's True Story, The Sun, and River Teeth. She teaches high school English just outside Minneapolis and writes about presence and positivity on Instagram at @emilybrisse.


Image by missisya courtesy of Adobe Stock

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