The day dragged to the night and the night back to the day.
It was not a harsh journey, but an accepted action in the race to a home worth the time.
Plus throughout the dark and the light, the trees sung harmony with
the shadowed mountains as the clouds danced over head like Rockettes on opening night.
Each coffee shop and every single antique store front waved to our passing
parade until the day finally, with a slow jerk, started back to night.
And then after twists and turns of hills familiar and not, we turned at mile 11.
We saw the sign, we saw the empty road which would surround us past the turn,
we saw home, and we saw it all through an ever creeping storm of the alkaline
dust you and I love so grudgingly.
The trail in was mystically slow and equally as fogged with dust as we squinted
to read the poems and phrases gliding past.
It was all so very surreal.
Until out of the starboard window of our large dirty van, did we see a ghost ship
gliding among the gusts, peeking through the storm, heading its galliant nose towards home.
Only then did the journey solidify into truth. We had made it.