The dirt smells like a drug

I have not felt this well placed in some time. Looking out across open fields, this place does not harbor my difficulties (I know they have their own) and I can freely be free. Smell the grass, watch the sun set over a low horizon.

The trees are from different generations, old oaks, young hickory, a small red bud, apples. Old pines, a few boxelder, I spot a buckthorn creeping. Blossoms fall thick and fast in an early gust of wind. It blows in the cold and wet that shapes our time, and yet I am in it every day. Like pulling on wellies and walking the coastal path, you are where you are out here. There is no need/want/desire to hide from it, to stay protected behind a screen, in front of a screen.

From here, things are built. I can imagine, the landscape opens, the walls fold down like a doll house. I can move, turn, twist, drop, pick up and shape. Must not try to do it all at once.

The wind blows, hard, constant. Jewel of the prairie. Old town, old streets. Low, wide verges.

I can build here. I can grow here, I stick my fingers in the dirt and want to push roots deep.

This is the beginning, what happens before the future happens, what happens before yesterday finishes and tomorrow is imagined.