following the seasone, following the herds.
Our getting on was always hard-scrabble;
in sickness and in health, we had to move or die.
One day someone, somewhere, some way,
learned to tame the food we'd always wandered after.
Then, we started building fences; huts and walls
began displacing tents; and we became enclaves
and called ourselves civilized. Back then,
We had to shout across the wind on horseback
to survive; at night we talked in quiet tones
and sometimes smoked or chewed. Always,
we ate. Now, our conversations are but motes
settled on convenience anywhere. We shout
at one another now so we don't have to hear.
No one listens. The fences must come down,
the huts and monuments and walls.
We don't need place or property.
We must have space and movement,
community of family and clan on horseback
follwing the seasons and the herds. It's time
we go back home and take the world back.