Place has a pull for you.  Your feet feel firmer on some grounds.  Wandering down paths and sleeping under different groves each night, your senses are keen to it.  There is a scent to a home-place, not a comfort, but mist on the ground, a form in the distance.  

"Be where you are," the mothers at their clotheslines whisper to you.  But you hold a precious anger; it stomps out in your feet, dust spindles and dead spiders.  So you move again, squinting at shabby houses with aprons and porches. Rights and privileges ruined when your house fell down.  

In a field as evening settles, you cover one eye and look.  Cover the other eye and look.  Stalks of grain jump.  Trees roll back and forth.  You unroll your blanket.  The place folds down around you, and you hear an owl flap her wings.  

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