Being Twenty

By Liv Abegglen

Is waking somewhere round three to the gray owl’s cry, sand gritting your cheek and teeth and hair; is unzipping and slipping from the tent as all the others rest; is watching dying woodsmoke trail to join the bleak black sky; is seeing cold stars spill on still dark water; is looking up and asking how can this be my one same life; in younger youth believing that the heavens held clouds of cats, that that was called love, that the world was a bad bad place; is swiping sand smooth and wondering what next shape your footsteps will make.

Liv Abegglen is twenty; she wrote this by the fire.