The grass is so dry now it’s mostly brown, a brown you would call golden if you looked at it right. And what’s to stop us from calling it gold? This stretch of life resigned to a form of living more dead than alive. It could be like that song by Sting from the 90s, fields of gold, a song of longing for a time long gone. To celebrate that time and not see it as a loss, but a new hue from a distance, a different angle. That all these hillsides would go green and then brown again, and with the right frame of mind, someday gold.