The dust has settled on the surface
Relaxing with the certainty of one so still,
One so sure of their place in the world
Beneath our feet
Above our heads
Everything in between
How did they arrive at such a juncture?
When did they acquire the wisdom of belonging, of rootedness?
Where and by what methods did they congregate so impressively?
So unified are they, that to grant them plurality
Is a blasphemy of the English language
The dust, they are called – not dusts
So infuriating is their flight
Swept away, they are displaced
But never out of place
So infuriating is their nonchalance
Finding equal footing amongst ledges or leaves
Shrugging their shoulders as they land in some niche
So infuriating is their nondiscrimination
Mingling with paraphernalia of the past and present alike
They touch everything, unaffected by associations
Sometimes I wish I were the dust
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