If you’ve never experienced June in the rural Netherlands, it has a specific, grounding magic. The air smells like fresh grass, the sky is an ever-shifting canvas of dramatic clouds, and the local wildlife (mostly overly opinionated sheep) provide a steady ambient soundtrack.

The clogs are a charming display, In a storefront along the doorway. But those shoes, they don't bend, To a nomad, my friend, They pinch every toe in their way.

A short prose section on the psychological cost of settling down in a country that runs on spreadsheets