Beneath Us, The Roots Slept

Barley, a dog, makes her way through an area of brown, desiccated grass, running from one edge of the frame to the other.

It took me far longer than I care to admit to understand that dormant grass isn’t “dead” grass that “comes back to life” with the rain. It’s such a striking transformation in color and texture that the temptation to frame the change in terms of life or death comes strong, and in casual conversation it doesn’t feel like a meaningful distinction. As I’ve grown older, I increasingly see the capacity grass has to roll with the seasonal punches as a distinct and remarkable superpower. Imagine finding a long-forgotten, shriveled mummy behind a wall in your house, giving them a couple of gallons of water and some granola bars, and having the person fill back out and wake up as if they’d simply been hibernating.