I am standing at the entrance to Arches
with my thumb out. After two weeks hitching
across Southern Utah I am gritty with dust
that was rocks that was ancient sea floors.
What stops is an old-school Bug loaded with
treasure: traveling bags leaking bright fabrics,
scuffed brass floor lamps, a sweating cooler
stuffed with juice and ice and turkey sandwiches,
drifts of children's books, a ceramic Buddha head
as big as my head, a tassled gray comforter,
and, in the back seat, a boy. He's blond like me.
I shove my pack in, fold myself onto the edge
of the seat, and offer praise. She's windblown,
luminous, and lean – what I like in a landscape.
"We're moving," she explains. "Not that we're
going anywhere, really. How about you?"
I thought life was taking me somewhere
but twenty years later I've come unhitched.
I think about her. How some people
let you in when there's no room. How
some people are happy with enough.