The weather was not the norm there. It rained red rusted leaves and stones that landed on the ground like cherries. The tree trunks would hold you, hold you until you weren’t lonely. The grasses did not sway in the wind, but the wind swayed in the grasses. The rivers were highways that, like veins, carried precious cargo. Heart beats in jars on boats, and as in our bodies, they traveled from mouth to feet. Inside every bird there was a bird; working the wings, flashing the talons, snapping the beak and turning the head to get a bird’s eye view. The raccoons flaunted their gills at the pond during their lunch break and the frogs swung from the trees, croaking their hoarse pleas for sanity. We might survive there, you and I. If only we used our teeth and our tongues and learned how to better use them every night and we could strengthen our lungs so as not to drown in a lack of words. We could make it. Even if the seasons were not the norm