Autobiography of the PrairieDeborah Ager
The Alachua said, the gods brought us water. Water came from earth until water became a lake. Water left and the lake became a prairie. I was dust, scoops of pollen, a young couple making love. I was firm ground under feet, carriages, the shadows of airplanes. I would like to have seen more of the world. I could have been predictable and kind. I could have been yours. Instead, I waited. I became the water sucked back and spit up again. I covered parking lots, filled alligator dens, and receded. I would be the last leaf left on the branch, kicking my way to the ground, calling out: you have everything.
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