In dark winter coats at sunset, we spell out SOS on snowy Bde Maka Ska. We throw orange cones over tear-gas canisters on Nicollet. We share blue plastic whistles with neighbors. We are as common as salt, as common as sand.

We stand guard wearing yellow vests at barricades and preschools. We line Lake Street with vigil candles. We burn memorial fires on Portland. We shuffle thousands strong down towered Minneapolis streets, wave signs on frigid freeway overpasses. We are as common as salt, as common as sand.

We check license plates from our evening armchairs, drive diapers to community centers. We wear layers and layers against the cold, against the winds. We are the sand on Minnesota roads, we are home-printed Know Your Rights pamphlets in Hmong, Somali, Vietnamese, Karen, Spanish, and Aramaic. We are a thousand frozen flowers and snow-covered framed photos. We are as common as salt, as common as sand.

We are warm cars waiting outside the Whipple Building with thermoses and blankets. We are fierce mothers keeping our children in the basement. We do not answer the door. Shades pulled. Curtains closed. Windows locked. Lights off. We are considering leaving the country. We have tough talks with our kids, but we are enduring. We are as common as salt, as common as sand.

We are scared; we are brave; we are fearful; we are fearless. We are not divided by rivers or lakes, not divided by railroad tracks or tree-filled parks. We are not divided by neighborhoods, as we are neighbors. The ice is slowly melting under our thousand grains of salt, our thousand grains of sand. We will stand.