The hole in the mud is encircled with families. Each family makes a day of moving the mud from the hole. Removing the thistles and sticks and mud stuck to the leaves. And cleaning the shape of the hole, the circle. Work days, work nights, chewing the ropes. So everyone is in it a little, the circle of earth that appears, the front. The families yell instructions, brotherly and sisterly advice, there’s no way to make it in just one way. No hole, yes hole, check. There is ever a retardant on the outer edges. A facing. A revelation that the food is on the table.
Alive with imperfections. They made camp with a fire and fare. They loop their tools around them.
And cleaning the wires. And cleaning the teeth. And revealing all that is full and empty. All that all in the air-hair of the sullied family. When all of the markers are gone. When food is on, the table, zero dimensions. When the land loosed the hole for all the families.
The wild ‘hi’ of day. I missed you. I did.