When the bugs crawl on me I am reminded that I was always earth.
The sticky detritus that folds in nitrogen and small stones
Buds and sprouts that yawn from the loam
Combing my hands through the sharp green shards of grass
I think of how we’re growing at the same time.
Smaller than is visible but large enough to hold between my teeth
To bite down and gnaw through the woody rush stems. Stretching out each strand of reed grass until they’re thin as violin strings.  
How would I live without the harsh air? Or the sun suspending me in a chamber full of fog and soft knowing.
I can’t believe I’m one of them: that I’m made of moss and memories and I live in a pocket of air between the ice float and river flow. Funny how
We’re on one side of the ground or another. There’s almost no difference at all.