Sea of Grass

The fields of grass begin several miles west of the Mansion.  They cover the balance of space between the ravine before you and the horizon beyond it.  An ankle-high carpet of green beneath a cloudless roof of blue.

A low-roofed shack sits at the edge of the ravine.  A slanted sheet of corrugated metal tops four walls of cinder blocks.  A large window looks out to the ravine, to the grass, to the horizon beyond them.  A metal door permits entrance from the opposite wall.

You stand on the plywood floor, as does column of cinder blocks.  At waist-level, a plywood console stands on those blocks.  One dial of compass directions.  One slider of amplitude, set to zero.

Lifting the slider lifts the soil of the fields into hills that roll like ocean waves in the direction marked by the compass.  The grass slides smoothly above the swelling hills; no rumble or quaking disturbs your feet.  Lift the slider higher, and the hills rise upward, move faster, toss blades of grass as foam in the sky.