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What have I become? All I want to do is lie somewhere, on the soft and unbroken earth. Feel the pulse of mother's womb, hear the coyotes calling, wade into a cold rushing river
What I would give to be in Wyoming. Where mountains hug the sky and the wind whispers stories of yesterday. Where lakes mirror dusty pine trees and Father Sun is close enough to burn sunflowers
The country road is a dusty strip of asphalt extending farther than the eye can see The edges are frayed, crumbling Cracks pepper the road, a few randomly tarred over Little to see in any direction keep running.