Nova Scotian

I think I’m Nova Scotian.

I think my words burble up out of the rock, bob and tumble across the water.

I was made in moss and lichen. Small things that eek and break away the rock, make soil and life in a thousand years of cold winters, mist, hot sun.

I am not of the people. They do not know my name or my face.

My place is here.

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