A Writ About Dirt

The plural dirt seem like they're laughing because they know that everything above their vast 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, even though it ignites the rootwork that tickles our insides and constantly keeps us guessing. We get along though. We need each other. We feel you, but we just don't need you, boy. As you were."