The sound of the rustling grasses in the wind reminds me of my childhood secret reading places and the games we used to play once the grass grew long. The smell takes me back there quicker than anything. I would find a dry ditch and weave the grass over the top, fill the bottom with cut dry grass or bring a rug from the house. Then lie there listening to the birds so high you couldn't see them and the whine of the power and telephone lines. Summers are not the same in the city.