I can sit staring at my screen as the metal tube I’m in accelerates - something like 200 miles per hour pulling tires off the ground leaping into the sky above the mountains of my home heading in less than 12 hours to the mountains of my other home and not lift my eyes or exclaim even a little bit. I can find something to complain about can work up a good frothing indignant rage in the seven hour delay like I’m entitled to convenience in my continent bounding. I can even download a book carried on the wind through invisible waves as I fly through the air and trouble myself about where to find magic. I turn to my ancestors wondering about them in a curious and admittedly trending kinda way. Maybe if I picture myself planted in Scotland silent winter persisting in May I’ll stumble upon the incantation the spell, the poem that will bring me back into the folds of craggy green and the belonging I seek. There’s a million ways to be enchanted in the magic of this modern world and a fleeting confusing moment to dance above the particularities of place stretching love beyond geography, fucking around and finding out what it means and what it doesn’t to move. And maybe there’s only ever one way to belong really to taste what not even Bluetooth can mimic. Spectacular slowness a creek flowing free between ice-sheeted rock leaves dangling in shrugged surrender lips and the cold nose of love. Asheville to Atlanta in 36 minutes not even enough time to write a poem. Magic.
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