The river of grass begins on just the other side of Dead River Drive. Swarming greens and palms pop like upside down mops.  The river of grass moves like a hundred breathing chests:  its breath swelling from the sludge, pushing the swarm of greens into the rotten air which is taken up by higher winds whose storm sweeps everything toward the west.  Snarls of moss like noxious warts burst from cypresses.  Thick, rich rain bursts in the summer; sad, hardening mud, dries broken and torn through the winter. - “Buiki Gasa and Ignoble Coconut Pearls,” a short story



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