Let it roll Sometimes I sit between two brooks. And just let time roll. There’s a deed somewhere that says I own the land. But I know that is absurd. The silver birches keep me patient company, and the water makes a sound before music. I feel my days slide out behind me, my scarred griefs dissolving. In the same way I don’t own this moment; none of us own anything. I think about the earth spinning across the silence of space. I smile that we make claims upon her, and carry our misfortune as if we designed it. The trees whisper their agreement. The brooks babble on. Freedom creeps up on me like a soft breeze. I let that roll, too.
Lovely.