Angels.

Remember how I like running in the hills?  I know this is all I ever write about anymore.  Just let me enjoy it while it lasts.

The grass, thanks to the rain, is tall and healthy-looking right now.  And when I stand on a rock or some promontory, all I see is the wind shaking the green grass in these uniform waves that catch the nascent sunlight as they undulate across the field, looking for all the world like some tranquil bay in a grass ocean I never knew existed.

The grass is so tall that it hides the paths traversing it.  The deer (I assume they're deer) are uncanny at finding the flattest and stablest ways of moving across the hill, and over the course of months or weeks their light but steady plod beats worn trails.  These trails are the best to run on.  But they're usually not more than about 6 inches wide, and unless I happen across one or see it from just the right angle, I'm oblivious to its existence.  Luckily there are a lot of them and they meet up with one another.  This is one of the metaphors I'm holding onto right now.