the thirteen year cidades bore perfect circle holes from beneath our feet and swarm in the woods. it has the tone of a city siren—blaring and bouncing from an ambulance to the buildings, to the people, and to everywhere. in new york, there’s always a siren. like the warm fuzzy feeling you get when a firefly or a frog reminds you of your childhood, the blare of a siren in the distance somehow made me feel good.
four men sweat into the earth until they are each satisfied with the collective day’s effort. eight hands are sore, and cracked open, and tinted with soil. eight hands are numb with ache, and use, and eight hands, when you look closely, will tremble ever so slightly, knuckles and tendons tight from activity, unable to relax fully.
four backs on the ground lay inflamed, shoulders pinched back towards the spine, and up towards the ears. stiff.
four hips lay in bed misaligned, eight knees swollen from crawling.
a sorcerer once told us we’re all here for one reason. tubes—cosmic pipes—the heavens above and the earth below, and we’re these tubes, a pipeline for which to deliver positivity to all other living things. and so we scrape, and scratch, and massage the mother earth. we water and maintain her bounty with love and deep effort.
as the night falls down upon us four today in the fields, our skin will still glow, saturated with sun. we can rest well knowing that our work was done well. we can rest well knowing that tomorrow we can do it again.
we’re growing food. and we know how it feels.