Threshold

Getting underway.

Last walk around the house before setting out.
Window by window I twirl the blinds that fold
Down like tired eyelids.
Thermostat up a tad, the empty rooms will like
The warmth. Timers set on lamps, a coordinated
Ruse to ward off unwelcome visitors.

The beagle dances at my feet, tail whirling like a propeller.
She awaits her car coat, which I slide on with a jingle of tags
And buckles. She prances, impatient for the open road,
Nose already tasting miles of new grass and highway wind.
The key turns in the lock like a bone setting.

The first miles are always the hardest, each one a small
Betrayal of the garden I watered at dusk; each one further
From the chair that knows the exact curve of my back.
But something older than mortgages or memory stirs:
The same pull that dragged Powell down the Colorado,
Into the jagged unknown, under a pitch
Black night punctuated with indifferent stars.

Home will wait. It always does.
The car picks up speed as we merge onto the river
Of Interstate, heading west. Ahead, past the
Fields, past the gleaming cities, the road
Goes white where it meets the sky.

As excited as I get to hit the open road, there is a bit of melancholy in leaving. The photo above was taken on the road to Dinosaur National Monument in Colorado. I keep a similar photo on my desk just to remind me of how vast this land is.