i am not homesick, but i am nostalgic. for open fields, acoustic songs, and moonlight. for folks who hike in the trees, and jump over creeks. the chaos of car wheels on a gravel road. lately i sit in my big city apartment and listen to patty, gillian, emmylou, and most recently mary gauthier. i read poems about Daniel Boone that were written by a guy from Kentucky. i remember my friend who wore overalls and lived in a trailer. She, no matter where she is, will never leave this rural bliss. Souls ain’t born, souls don’t die. They ain’t made of earth, ain’t made of water, ain’t made of sky. I am.