The grass did sing to me once. I stood at the edge of a field, under the
shade of a redwood canopy. The shoulder-height grass before me rustled
and shifted in the wind like ripples on a calm ocean. Sunlight poured
over this grand display, illuminating the waxy surface of the blades as
they curled towards the sky. All else was silent. I was with the forest, the
animals, the insects, listening.