image prone and maudlin, i cry when i think about home for too long.

hills, trees, whipoorwills, owls, cows, dogs, gunshots echoing, the sun on the lake

i hold on to these dear things.

the low moaning of a cow in heat on a summer’s night.

the barn behind the house, which is also a painting in the laundry room.

the fact that it might just be a picture of a barn and not a real barn at all.

the regular boom sound from the blueberry farm that scares away birds

those blueberries in the freezer, an icy treat for younger teeth

the hard memories that come easily in the presence of my mom and dad.

the difficulty in saying goodbye, even if it's temporary.

the feeling that living is a thin shell covering the void, when we die, the shell crack, living crumbles.

the inefficiency of my own enjoyment of life, the cutting-off one must do to grow.

the plastic dinosaur i found in the dirt, which was my private discovery, one of my first memories.

waking and sleeping on granny head peninsula

the Dibler cemetery that's close by but i've never visited

the time i stayed for a month and did not want to leave, how i walked in the yard during the bright of the day, looking at a tree that's younger than me, but as tall as the house

it's important to remember that there is substance behind things and that we live inside a shell, not on its surface, and when the shell cracks, we are free

the carpet of moss under that tree

the shop i helped my father to wire.

what he taught me about making and fixing things, counting, and caring.

using a simple siphon to empty the pool, a hose trailing down the slope of the hill, draining with gravity

remembering that the ground has lots of small rocks and people say there's no use farming it unless you want to grow rocks

my grandparents across the street and the feeling of expansiveness that family nearby can give

the way my mother could draw anything i asked for, could sew anything i needed to wear

my blue bear blanket, cold against my scrawny legs.

i am a hill person

i think about how they dammed the river and created a big old damn lake.

my great grandpa would dig wells and he used a peach tree switch to pick the best spot. he'd drive around the area, crossing bridges, most of which are underwater.