Left

The trip was disappointing,

At least in that they had planned

To spend most of the summer

On a farm in Montana

Living as the guests of friends.

The friends turned out to not be

Terribly prepared for guests,

Nor really all that friendly.

The planned three-month adventure

Through the Lower 48

In a big, borrowed Buick

Ended after forty days

And seven thousand road miles,

Looping through twenty-some states

But never really staying

Long enough in any place

To soak the whole of it in.

They sighed, All that traveling,

But then we never really

Got to enjoy anything.

They were back in the Deep South,

Sitting on her parents’ porch

On a muggy July night,

A few early firecrackers,

Popping in nearby backyards.

Same old, same old, same old, and

Many muggy months to go.

The day they left Montana

After a single, fractious

Week spent sharing a trailer,

A bald eagle had landed

Beside them while they picnicked

On the shore of Flathead Lake.

In the northern plains, they’d paused

To read the plaque in the grass

Marking the prehistoric

Shoreline of Lake Agassiz.

In Idaho, they’d pulled out

At a viewpoint looking down

On a vast sweep of blooming

Camas lilies below them.

On Mount Washington, the wind

Whipped their hair so much they laughed

As they tried to take pictures.

All these things. All of these things.