Grass reveals itself in fall and winter.

No longer just green leaves flattened underfoot, but stems luminous as glass in the low sunlight, seedheads raised in bronze spikes, combed in crystal beards, exploding in domes of fractal fireworks. Big sheath bluestem, its feathered florets floating in parchment boats. Toothache grass, its tiny teeth twisted in a cosmic spiral. Southeastern wild rye, its bristly bottlebrush heads reminding us we should long ago have turned our attention to the promise of our native grains.

I could stand for hours in fields of them, unmown and untamed, watching the wind send shivers through orange, plum, gold and tawny stalks.