July 7, 2022 I want to speak the language of a cloud. I want just to be there, here, to float untethered, to be part of this vast mysterious unfathomable universe. I want to rain, to pour water onto the parched ground, to drink up from waters down below With the droplets from my sisters and brothers, cousins, and elders, to make streams and rivers and oceans. I want to rain sometimes gently sometimes with strength and fury and rage. I want to know that I am life. I am part of

July 5, 2022 My name is Ash. You might think by my name that I am dry, leftover. Just remains, gray and dead. Don’t be fooled. I am anything but. Do you know how deep into the soil, soul of the earth, my toes stretch? How they tiptoe out, close to the stream drinking in clear water holding tight to the bank so the soil doesn’t wash away? Can you see how the sassy squirrels scamper and sky birds skitter among my arms, seeking safe places to store tasty seeds and to settle a fa