The Way West

We left the humid air of Georgia,
where summers hang heavy like wet sheets on a line,
and headed west, following the slow unravel
of asphalt and unfamiliar sky.

Chattanooga met us first
where cliffs lean close to brick facades,
and the river curls through streets
like it’s choosing to stay.
Old stone, new glass,
coffee shops tucked beside train tracks,
the sound of water and freight and voices
still finding their way together.

Then Cairo
where two rivers hold their breath at the meeting,
and streets run out to an infinite void.
Storefronts sag under dust and heat,
their paint peeling back to brick and bone.
You can almost hear the swing of a screen door,
the echo of shoes on wood floors
in buildings no one enters now.
There’s history thick in the air,
but no one left to tell it.

Kansas gave us the Flint Hills,
grass rolling like a slow sea,
green on green, stitched with light.
Driving there, I thought of wagons
moving slow through this same sweep of land,
canvas stretched against a punishing sun,
families hoping for more than what they left behind.
We sped through in a day,
windows down, music up,
while the ghosts of their slow westward pull
rose and fell with the hills.

And then Colorado
flat at first, the sky opening wide enough
to swallow our small car whole,
then hills, sudden and laughing,
the road tossing us like kids on a carnival ride.

At last, Colorado Springs
where fields burned gold with sulphur bloom,
and Pike’s Peak stood watch,
stone-shouldered and unbothered
by the smallness of our journey.

We will unpack boxes
to stake our claim,
set dishes in cabinets like promises,
and opened the windows to air
we have yearned to breathe.