Shimmering glass off the highway shoulder reflecting October moonlight.
Smelling the end of summer mixed with asphalt and rubber; we make like we’re thieves beneath changing leaves.
You follow the trace of tree tops and telephone wires, and you feel your breakfast in your stomach and where you’re going is entirely unknown but maybe anywhere, if it just feels right, could feel like home.
Red squirrels are here, she’ll find out soon enough, and if she sprints fast this chain will rip us in half.
Anxiety in the Black Hills where everything’s holy. I feel more lonely than alone in all manner of place, reaching Black Elk Peak entirely at your pace.
Sitting on a bluff, facing the wind, staring into space as the face of the cliff begins to rattle. Terrified of trying to force it, but I want control that’s not there.
I am space; occupying space, matter. Broke down shit, bummed out shit. Being real with myself can be a fucking trip. I call this the traveller’s chant.
I wish the kids behind me would stop talking about broken hearts and reputations.
A dog barks behind us. A door slams, muffled greetings. The wind runs through the upper halves of tall pines. Chirps, whirls, tweets. A motorcycle roars down a distant, unseen highway.
A three-note song, a short shrill. You sit down, your lower back settles against my knee and stays there. It’s a nice home.
The North End 
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