This is Bat Country

Summer is over, and the north is finally calling me back.

I am sitting at the window of an old church that has given over to the new loft of the one who loved rock and roll.

The city put me in a state of suspended motion, so I found a plane and came to the other side.

I got into a car with the one who loved rock and roll and we drove. I saw the desert for the first time, the mountains, the flatness until forever.

Through hours of this and appreciation for the warm strong coffee of truck stops with their sustainable community, I got somewhere.

The one who loved rock and roll represents everything I want to be able to walk away from, so he was naturally the perfect road partner.

That, and he and I have the beautiful addition to our friendship where we can be in the same place for hours and yet be light years in other directions.

It was difficult at times; there are moments I am not want to let go of.

We made it through the southwest and Roswell and pickup trucks and shooting guns in the country, and Vegas. We made it through Vegas.

We came back to this old loft and I was the first one awake from the afternoon great sleep. Sitting at the window I got that chest ache that seems to arrive at the end of everything great and the cusp of everything that is the next.

And the next is the north,

and bat country is the only way there this season.