so fast I forget to absorb the now now now of being where my feet are. I refuse to reduce these years to blurred half-truths and half-asleep rainy mornings I spend on the nauseating bus humming down Prices Fork Road. I want to remember the stickiness of the rain here, even in the bitter cold mud of the New River Valley where everything ironically feels old, nothing new at all, the very soil we stand on worked by human hands deeper than anywhere I’ve ever been rooted. Do not let me forget the electricity of this place. How holy the fog on a Sunday morning, how charged the stars every night I stumble home in the dizzy glory of a 20-something dreamer. Do not let me call these open fields anything but home, these cornfield paths, the jagged and unexpected trails left behind by speeding bicycles cutting through the farmland, the sheer audacity of the springtime to be this tender on the soul, and the silent cows stopping to observe us as we pass, thinking of nothing but the kindness of our company.

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