Still i call it living

This land doesn’t speak in thunder, but in the soft groan of roots below— where even silence has work to do. I walk the fields before light arrives, boots damp, heart unsure— some mornings feel like unopened letters. A seed is not small—it’s a rebellion, a dare thrown at weather and fate, buried with hands that still believe. The rain doesn't promise kindness— it falls where it falls, and some prayers get left dry. Once, a crow waited on my fence eight days without saying why— some companions don’t need language. The scarecrow leans like an old man, watching over crops and ghosts— I fix him, but not too much. My daughter used to run through these rows, laughter trailing like wind behind her— now her voice comes folded in wires. A tree I planted broke under lightning— I didn’t cry, but I left that field alone for a whole season of forgetting. Today, I plant again with cracked hands, knowing this might fail—but still, I call it living when I try.