On my knees on the outskirts of town, towering sycamore trees shield me from prying eyes as I dig in damp soil with bare hands. I’m not sure what I’m searching for. I had something in mind when I set out, but now, I’m driven less by an idea and more by instinct. Perhaps I’m digging to find what it is that I’ve lost, or perhaps in the back of my mind, I’ve known all along, and I’m digging instead to bury that which shames me the most—the inability to believe that tomorrow will ever come. The trees remember me from my youth. They sing songs regarding dreams and hope, but to my adult mind, it’s all smoke and mirrors. In the dirt beneath my fingers, existence is so plain to see. I’ve seen it on every street I’ve ever walked, which is why I’m crushed by that which I can’t bring back. If I strain my ears and hold my breath, I hear the beating of drums. They beat the same as my heart. It’s a sinister loop, one that echoes around the chalk hills that surround this desperate town of mine. If you were to take out my veins, they would lasso the moon, and in the deep of night, the whites of your eyes will show me what’s worth keeping, and what’s worth leaving behind ready to be blanketed by the first falling of winter snow.