He who lives on the road discovers himself.
He who discovers himself becomes god.
In August we went on the road, and at that time
white rabbits powdered the sky.

Through the eyes of god we saw that we
were grateful to be as dry as twigs and dust choked.
Blessed is he who has alternate
waypoint settings programmed into the gps (lowercase).
Amen.

We never talked of Love -
discovering without words the sure things in life
are only understood when one is
quiet enough to listen to nothing.

Each evening we'd see faces
in the campfire.
A woman named Shirley whose
ember jaw dropped off.
On our last night I asked him to nail me to the ground.
The mean stars were egging me on to join them.


Sara Fielder © Nov 2020