This valley

has a strange hold on me.

Through flourishing, violent uprisings,

bloody defeats,

this ancient soil fruits a people belonging,

unmoving, and struggling

cavernously.

I’ve been transplanted, migratorily bound,

the next move both imminent and unimaginable.

Time is ridiculous–

when that change comes

and twists me from these mountains’ grip,

it could be Thursday,

or next millennia.

A loosening grip

and a thunderous push to be here,

beautifully unexamined,

saddles beneath me.

I must ride.

Discomfort undertows us to

get

over

ourselves.