Maybe They’ll Grow

She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She opened her palms to the world with every intake and clenched her fists to squeeze the air out of her lungs. Her legs pushed and pulled her body up the hill. The weeds swayed inches from her shin. Her hand closed on a plant and tore it off. The wheat-like pods surprised her hand, their texture at once smooth and rough. Her thumb sifted through them as the violence of their separation caught up with her. She shuddered. She scattered them along the path in a sparse stretch.