There’s no simple way to introduce what it feels like living by a river of historic significance during turbulent times.

Knowing the nooks and cracks that made history, the disheveled justifications, a sense of hopelessness overcomes. The loss of faith in people to do the right thing, not because church or God tells them to, but because their gut knows what’s wrong.

The philosophers will debate plato and the animal that gets trained or the trained animal, I think. They toss the coin on complexities, and some are inspirational, other word play.

The them and us play stands, the identity politics. Yet we are associated creatures on recognition and language, of validity.

The histories flood back. With the tide. They are made, manufactured, manuscripted, and some translate in plain English, speaking for the blossoms.