Thursday, August 23, 2007
How does any journey start?
One step? A plan? A 2 a.m. idea?
Catching a wind that pushes the tail,
the window rolled down to breath in the local flavors,
I could be anywhere:
the rounded, verdant hills of my home,
the brushed pale prairies west,
the horizontal earth south.
Eventually direction matters less,
each mile becomes not a way to leave
not a marker at all, really.
Food happens when you find Dottie’s café
at the junction of CR 17 and 220,
a three-calendar spot off a blue highway.
Watching one amorphous moment lapse into another,
the window rolled down to let in the aged, baking sun,
I am everywhere at once.
Thoughts are liquid during
moments like these. Silently they slip through the
built up, pent up, beat up brain, and into
the airy fields of corn,
the auburn brawn of desert rock,
the china thin pearl of Pacific fog.
Photo credit: C.M. Lynch