A Writ About Dirt

The plural dirt seem like they're laughing because they know that everything above their vast, subterrainian expanse is headed their way, me included. "You don't know shit, boy. Wait 'til you're down here with us. That's when it gets interesting. Legune and radish roots crawling through your belly. Groundhogs tunnelling violently through your gut. Just you wait. You walk around on top of us, you excavate us, but it don't hurt us at all. We're so fucking old that we're indifferent to pain, but deeply in love with the rain. The plural rain ignite where there is no light, when the rootwork that tickles our insides and constantly keeps us guessing gets us high. We get along. We need each other. We feel you, but we just don't need you, boy. As you were. Pora Aura.