I dreamed the soil remembered me

I was kneeling in a field that wasn’t mine, hands deep in dark loam, and the earth whispered my name like it knew me from before I was born. Not a voice—more like roots shifting, water finding its way through stone. I woke up with dirt under my nails, real dirt, still warm from the dream. The sun hadn’t risen yet. I stood there in the yard, staring at the sky, wondering if the land ever forgets what we do to it. Or if it just waits.