Summer grows roots from my feet into the soil of this land. The sun bleaches streaks of blonde in my strawberry hair, and freckles emerge like seeds on my skin.
The earth and light do their part to keep me here, though the wind blows in some afternoons and I feel the old pull of travel tug at my chest.
On morning walks with the dogs, Waylon on my back, I follow worn paths through the forest and imagine the roots of my feet rolling up and down the land like waves, loosening my body with each step so I may follow the breath of air.
Some mornings before I finish my tea, the light travels for me, and I step outside to move with the rising mist and sun rays filtering down toward the soil, whispering a single word: soften.
I remember the tug I often feel while traveling, to stop in one place and dig in, to find the veins of the land and match my rhythm to their pulse.
The morning turns to day imperceptibly, suddenly, and tasks take their place in my mind as the sun rises high into a clear sky. It’s time to tend to the fields now.
All day the light travels, bringing evening about, and we hang our tools and prepare dinner and sit outside to eat as the earth tilts away from the sun and the sky dances itself into sunset.
The air is still and my chest is quiet and my soles root into grass.
The light deepens into night, and though I’ve not left this land all day, I’ve witnessed movement, been part of the full round stretch of day and the long exhale of twilight.