sweetgrass

by underswansea

RCE_2913

I like people that ain’t quite right. The lip chewers. The ones who aren’t sure about Christ or God or whoever is supposed to be running the show. The ones who can’t count money, nor can understand how land, sky and water can be owned. The ones who figure the sun is going around us. That it’s us going down and coming up and never take for granted that it will happen again. Regardless, that’s here nor there, they like the moon better anyway. The night sky and stars against the upside down roots.

I like people that don’t fit. The ones who lay by the lake. Burn driftwood. Planks off mantles. Pallets. Whatever blows ashore. Curses the waking birds, but not really. Hops around to get warm. Smokes cattails. Searches for missing beer. Wading into the water, convinced tins will sink like treasure. Can follow the rails for miles without looking up. Prefers birches in winter without leaves to crowded beaches, ice cream stands, personal water crafts, mixed drinks, condo complexes and designer sunglasses.

I like people that can’t relate to television. Don’t like paying rent, or flattening earth. Folks that figure the open air is crowded enough. I like people that hear funny voices across the lake coming from way back when, but ignore them because they don’t want to be considered strange. I like people that figure enough, is just that – enough.

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