The Witness of Roots
I.I became aware in the dark, and my first thought—if it was a thought, which I doubt, because thoughts move too fast for what I am—was that the soil tasted different here. Richer. The soil of Connecticut, where I began, had been thin and stony, full of the memory of ice. This soil was warm, and wet, and full of other things: the excretions of creatures I could not see but could taste through...
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