When it rains here you go outside. Barefoot.
The mountains fade in the gray and the wind gusts, moving through you like an old screen door.
I stand, soles to earth, hands clasped atop my head and let it fall on my forehead. My cheekbones, chest and toes.
I want to be here. Grounded in the musky smell of wet dirt and creosote rising.
To know this place like a well worn jacket. To turn it inside out and expose the seams, the workmanship of it all.
The guts of the thing. Only then will I know what threads hold me.
I love myself better here. I have said it once and I say it again.
It's true. This is my place.
Perhaps I could find no other. Perhaps it found me.