It’s a Sunday afternoon. Or maybe a Tuesday. Could also be a Friday, I wouldn’t know. I’m about four years old and all I know for sure is that the sun in shining and it’s that perfect temperature outside when it’s cool enough to lay in the sun and take a nap and not sweat. I run out the front door and down our wooden steps, then dart across our front yard into the overgrown ‘pasture’ next door, glancing over at the glassy flat lake beyond the yard and knowing that no waves means I’ll have a long time in the sun.

I slow down as I enter the tall grasses and stretch my arms wide, letting the blades and flowers brush my skin as I walk to my favorite spot. There’s nothing special about this spot to the average passerby, but it’s perfect to me. The flowers are bright and colorful and soft to the touch. Within them, I’m far enough from the surrounding houses and road that I feel separate. The grasses are a little smushed from me visiting so much so it feels like a fort, and I know every plant and bug that lives in that two foot square patch of my meadow. I push through the last few steps of the tall, green grass dotted with blooms and sink to the ground, twisting so I land lying down on my back. The sun kisses my face and bare arms as I close my eyes and listen to the stems underneath me crackle as they settle under my weight. The ground is cool below the smushed grass and it balances the warmth of the sunshine perfectly. A gentle breeze tousles the blooms above my head. I open my eyes and I reach up to stroke them with my fingers.

A lady bug is crawling its way across the bright pink petals of one of the flowers, and I put my index finger on the petal in front of it so it’ll climb on. It’s tiny feet tickle the back of my hand as it scurries across. I watch it for a few minutes, switching hands when it runs out of real estate, then I put it back on the bright pink flower, imagining it has a family or a group of friends to get back to. I sit up and look around, straining to see over the top of the flowers. There are no cars passing by on our quiet, lake front road. Nobody is outside mowing grass or playing with their kids or tinkering with their boats. No dogs are barking. I lay back down on my smushed grass and take a slow, deep breath. My heart rate slows down in my ears, my muscles relax, and I listen closely to the sounds around me.

The soft whoosh of the breeze filtering through the meadow, the chirps of smaller birds tittering around the flowers and tall grass, the occasional whistle from a bald eagle in the trees along the lake, and the undertones of gentle waves rolling across the water and into the shore all sing a lullaby that gently lulls me into that place between awake and asleep. I imagine I’ve sprouted wings and I’m sitting in the trees with the eagles. One of the eagles and I leap from the branch we’re sitting on and dive down to the water, leveling out just before we touch the surface. I look over at the eagle as we glide across the lake, noticing his curled talons at the end of his orangey-yellow legs and his sharp, pointed beak. “He’s incredible,” I think, as he angles his wings so he starts to climb upward. I mimic him and follow, climbing higher and higher until I look down and my house is just a speck on the green and blue landscape below.

We fly in a few small circles, following the perimeter of the lake, then suddenly the eagle turns and dives straight down. I let out an excited WOOHOO! and flip my legs above my head, pinning my wings to my sides. The wind roars in my ears and rips emotionless tears from my eyes as I barrel toward the water below. All too soon I have to unfurl my wings and slow my descent, swooping down next to the eagle again. We turn in a wide circle across the lake, shaking off the adrenaline, and head back to the trees.

As we settle onto the branch we’d leapt off of only a few minutes earlier, a sound that sticks out from my lullaby starts tugging at my attention. I look around the tree tops but don’t see anything out of place. Then I realize the sound isn’t in the trees with me, it’s back on the ground. My mother’s voice is calling from our front steps and the sound of her voice is being carried to me in the breeze and through the flowers and blades of grass. I shake my head a little bit, clearing it of the eagle and thoughts of flying. As I open my eyes I realize it’s gotten chilly, so I stand up and start walking back toward the house. “I’m coming!” I shout to my mother, and I see her step back inside now that I’m headed home.

I walk slowly back through the meadow, running my fingers through it’s hair of blossoms and bahia grass as it does the same to me. I know I’ll have to pull it’s bits out of my tangles later but I don’t care. As I step back into the short, well-groomed yard in front of my house I turn and look at the quiet field behind me, already planning my next foray into the flowers.