I never really dream about the prarie.
The mountain forest river dreams seem closer,
faithful to my internal and external life.
American circumstances are linked to the battleground of the European conquest
of Turtle Island.
But the roots of my soul are western Asian.
So my participation is not committed to the perspective of the conqueror,
Even as that may mellow into some benign intent that does not go so far as to relinquish the spoils of war.
I have some European ancestry from the mountains of the northern eastern borders of Asia, and the central Alps.
Mountain forest ancestors.
The Supernal goodness of municipal bureaucracy is not for me a subliminal a
priori ground of being, the ledger on which all deeds are accounted.
My heaven is not a white-waashed urban Oz or even an Olmstead imperial garden.
It seems more a mountain, thickly dropped with multi-species intelligence.
With art and artifacts that coincide with the shaping of the rocks and limbs.
So the stream flows rhythmically and the bough blooms.
Only closer inspection reveals the writing on the rocks,
T he arrow "press here",
The tree marked "Eat" or "Eat not."