All around me brown women are brick- laying, hands filthy with mortar, nails red from the clay they packed together to mold their fortresses. Each level a steppingstone to climb higher and leave this humble ground behind.
Each wall evidence their army has grown stronger. I crave the simple mud and seed, the promise of solid earth beneath my feet. I need the exposed, fertile soil surrounding me, need to see my branches sprout in open field—I prefer my oak tree to their skyscraper,
a reminder I have room to grow.