You can’t always root somewhere. Sometimes it’s enough just to lay down a tent. Ground too full with rocks like a drink with too many ice cubes. Trees going at it with every sort and size of straw. Bark-wrapped and pale bald. Thigh size and spiderweb fingers feeling creek bottoms like raccoons for crawfish to crawl in. Taste the good water. Not the rain. Not a filthy river. The surface lake man dug and fake. But the vast veins of crystal blue flowing beneath us all. Feeding us. Like roots. Sure you see a spring or two where the mantle broke and blue is peeking through. But the good water is deep. Thousands of feet beneath our feet. All of us. Even the trees. Through rock and clay and deep down defiance. We may never reach it. The good water may not even exist. But the foundations that get laid just trying, all around, growing tangled, bumped up knees and elbows from underneath the floor of the tent. A good night among thirsty friends. All of us. Seeking better water. And though I cannot lay down a root, for all of theirs, I can taste it. In my imagination.

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