It’s the katydids and the birds. It’s the leaves gathering momentum, the sound of things flung from trees. Fleeing, falling, crashing to the ground. The sunlight is disjointed. It comes to me broken and perplexed. Everything is green and angry, all of it fighting for space, all of it pushing to be heard and seen. The heat is sucking and pulling, forcing its way inside until I am buoyant, until I float above the trees. I cannot stop the opening.  The tiny things coiled neatly in the deep have sprung open. They are full of the letting go. And the words… they are rising. Coming loose deep inside and rising. They float out of my being and demand that they be heard.

It is this place. It is the depth of its seasons. It is the way one’s soul is moved to a sudden memory by a bitter winter cold or a searing summer heat. But mostly, it is the way I am no longer held to the ground by the roots of my past. All of the things that once kept me in place have frayed until they are no more. And so it has happened. I have become untethered.

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