My lover and I hiked along a trail crisscrossing a stream. Tiny white butterflies fluttered along with us as we all traveled beneath a forest, just pushing out its spring lineup. A straight line caught my attention. Nature doesn’t make straight lines, humans do. There, buried deep in the foothills of Appalachia, lay the outline of a home. Buttercups still grew around it like a holy shroud of remembrance.
Early this morning, I lay awake praying for America, which is once again screaming itself hoarse, maddeningly drowning in a sea of unimaginable wealth, unable to see the butterflies or buttercups. It is an unholy shroud of useless eyes and ears.
I pulled some buttercups to take home with me, a thank you to those long-ago people who had eyes to see me and ears to hear me say, "God Bless Americans."
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