Shores of the land were dotted with homes, sweet smoke pluming into the sky. Fields of the land were ripe with corn and squash trailed its yield on the vine. Streams of the land bore fish and sand bore clams, retrieved from boats built out of hollowed-out pine.
Faraway travelers made wishes and plans, bought a ship and believed, “This we can.”
Sickness spilled and the land filled with bones. Homes fell to the earth, smoke died in the hearth, and crops turned to rot in the mud.
Then travelers brought rebirth to the hollowed-out home. “This land is mine.”