The grass, high as your waist and as flexible, so bright that you had to squint against the explosion of lime, like citrus in your eye, and the way that it pulsed, one blade against the next, so that its movement almost had you believing that it was inching up and over the hill, looking for the icy creek, just as you were.
The grass pushed you away, but only slightly, trying to gain an advantage and cannonball first into the water.
The water, once you got there, was waiting only for you. The grass pulsed back away in defeat and it sighed a hot breath in your direction that stank of manure. But the water was like fire to your toes and suddenly you decided you weren't so hot after all, nothing that a little nap in the grass couldn't fix.
The citrus growth held you tightly, only lashing a little in contempt of your victory, and you laid there until you felt the bugs marching their way up your shorts.
Then the water, you realized, was your only hope.
You only hoped it wouldn't sting your grass burns.