It's hard to believe that it was only a year ago that Chris and I went on our cross country road trip.

                                   Westward

From the air I trace my way back across the line we made--
          the sharp cut through the geometries of spent corn and prairie
                    laced with twining arteries of muddy water--
          that from up here glint like mercury.
All those broken, moldy, used up towns we passed
          from here look neatly clumped and orderly.
I remember the cowboy cafe
          smelling of stale cigarettes and mutton
                    and the four old ladies chatting over coffee
          that looked like they smelled the same. 
And the New Resurrection Chapel
          set up in a rented storefront--
                    lines of plastic chairs and a music stand pulpit--
          the hand-painted "Everybody Welcome" sign
                              in the cracked display window.
I remember all those garish rest stops brimming with fat travelers
          loading up on Slim Jims and souvenirs.
But altitude tidies those things.
Way up here there are no details,
          no glories, no disappointments,
                    only the path itself.

I fly with only a little bounce
          over the tops of great electric downpours
                    like those we watched approach our windshield
          in ominous walls.
Hard sheets of rain that focussed our huge anxieties
          on the road ten feet ahead
                    instead of the time two weeks ahead
          when I would leave you to your new life.
When I would leave you on the wrong coast--
          the one your great great grandfathers
                    turned their sturdy backs on
          at such cost.

They fled the bounties of the east
          its rolling, woody greens,
                    its broadening and burdening civilities
          its thick wet air.
They walked our same path in reverse.
They carved the road we took.
Their every ford of our scenic Sweetwater was heroic.
They stumbled through our interesting badlands
          goading thirsty animals, greasing axels,
                    patching boots.
They sang by day and kept a careful eye on the horizon.
They sang by night in tight circles and slept with their rifles.
They watched the great mountains slowly rise up before them
          and felt the air get thin and dry and cool.
They buried their children along our road.

On that windy Wyoming plain
          when we found the rock where they'd carved their names,
I wondered if their ghosts watched dismayed--
I wondered if they felt betrayed
                    as you moved east.