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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.


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