I’m in a wide, shallow, dirt ditch.

Someone is speaking to me.

He’s saying the dirt in his ditch is toxic.

But I’m nested

in the ground of my dream

the way the burrowing owl

digs into where she must be,

the way the snapping turtle

insists on her earthly nest. 

The ground of my understanding,

wisdom, imagination,

the floor of the world that

opens into possibility,

world of dreams.

His ditch is toxic.

I am lucky to be in mine.