Laks
The Dike-Keeper with Iron Hands
I hold the line. You bring the shovel.
They call me the Dike-Keeper. I call myself tired, but still standing. My hands are iron, my land is mud, and my pigs? Smarter than most men. The world’s been geoengineered into chaos and I’m just out here trying to keep the sea from taking what’s left. You want to save the planet? Start by saving your own damn patch.
What I'm Into: mud-season rhythms, sharpened spades, salt-sting wind, pig grunts at dawn, watching the sky like it’s lying
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