I was watching the canola fields the other day from the main waterfill station. These prairie people surely must have noticed how pretty everything is when they grew up here as children. They probably don’t even notice it anymore. From a child’s eyes, everything is fresh and new. The little discoveries that you learn and keep to yourself only to find that it’s common knowledge when you’re older. Now too old and too busy, one might only remember and notice it during a particularly contemplative mood. Maybe with beer in hand, maybe watching the next storm come in. “I need to slow down”, one might be thinking.

The wind blew through the field in a symphonic constant motion. Each blade of grass jumped and cheered next to the other like they were doing the wave at a hockey game. The broader view of the field looked like an ocean, blossoms and tips lost in the waves.

This is the first I’ve noticed this for I never grew up here. In fact, I belong a long way from here. My child eyes took in the magic of the oceanic field and the excitement of a newfound secret sparked in my chest. The sky was a mixture of light and dark storm clouds. My co-worker was complaining about the lack of a safety plan in case of a tornado. I resisted the urge to point out the beauty – he was too intent on being angry today. I agreed. Although a tornado was unlikely, it would have been a good idea to let people know what to do.

The rain started to come down and it felt fresh against the warmth of my skin. I took a moment to savour the feeling and then got in the truck and drove off.

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