Every crossing, like every moment,
Is both remarkably similar
And yet, in all its details, unique.
When there is unexpected traffic
Or unexpected weather, they are
Also familiarly surprising.
The trip may have one true oddity—
The gas station that ran out of gas,
The fog that dropped from a clear blue sky—
Something to remember that trip by,
But they blend, back and forth, the long rides,
Making one crossing of all crossings,
Composed in singular memory—
No one else can know your one crossing,
Even if they joined you many times.