A face pursed to the earth at peak golden hour with hands careening between blades of grass. You’ve insouciantly abandoned any care of the grass-stained knees that are sure to follow. You’ve made it, you’ve finally succeeded in chasing the childlike wonder that is only found amongst the bees in a field of clovers. New growth inevitably pushes through the soil, matching the pace of the hopeful and ripened spring glow.
