Warm fire.

The body knows.

Like the Baobab Tree, the Fox huntress, the Leopard, the Sparrow. The body knows. Like the lichen shifting and sticking, curling, climbing.

There are shrouds of oil sheen laid over our eyes by loved ones who believed that they were protecting us.

There are shackles placed around our wrists by those who deemed their chrome and shine Progress.

There are voices we were told never to listen to, languages lost out of fear of the darkness.

It is our responsibility to come alive, to come home. Again, and again.

There is a warm fire waiting.