Better Ways

I love this country.
Seated against a tree in Virginian highlands.
I love this country. And, I know what all that means.
Mountain pillars float above foundational streams.
Tall rooted sunlight schemes in wiggling green.
Evening breeze.

I love when high wind sweeps low and even stillness quivers.
Feel this shiver slink along my spine.
End up near my mind.
I love a cup of wine.
I love to breathe smoke.
And nurse fire.
I love the country where I am.
Gnats wing electricity near my ear.
Fire molesting moist wood.
Hesitant to burn.
Begged to be left alone.
This country is my home.
And I am anything but inclined to protect it.

On my feet.
Eating miles.
Wide hipped pictures of horizons
and boot prints on the trails.

I love this country best
when I love it with my footsteps
with my time.

House. Jobs. Farm. Goats. Careers. Left behind.
By definition. They were not this country.
Which was here long before we were.
And will remain so long past I. Us. We.

Lovers of continents we can’t understand.
There are better ways than words to say it.

Try walking.

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