From the Bus Window
The plains stretch out dark and silent across Longmont, across Niwot.
And in my mind, I can see them roll flat, descending slowly through Kansans, through southern Illinois until they hit the base of the Pennsylvania mountains.
Mountains to mountains. I’ve lived on either end of his vastness, driven through it half a dozen times at least, and came to fall in love.
To love a land is to love life; to love life is to love land.
And then here I am at 32, so much to be done — so many cities yet to explore, so many people yet to meet — and still the dirty dishes sit in the sink, waiting to be scrubbed.
