The green scent of wet grass, as raw as spring. On the prai- rie’s belly, clover flowers and hawthorns are shivering, as are the stems turned blue by the early morning. The sun drying the hedges; a spark amid the tall grasses lining the paths; the smoke of green wood fires. The soil comes up to the surface, and under the meadows’ back, runs the round spine of old granite hemmed by mosses, like so many slumbering herds, with dew rippling down their musk.