Pike Place

The rocking bus becomes familiar, the way it creaks and sways, and when its stops are intentional. You sleep late but wake just as you roll into another town; it spreads out around you for just a few minutes before you are in it, the others wake too late and are disoriented by the narrow alley. There is sun, though the forecast said there never would be.

Make your way west to the ends of the continent, stand at the top of the hill and look out over the bay, the wharf, the ferries: everything looks cold, menacing. Eventually the rain comes, but by then you are safe in your house on wheels where the smattering drops cannot harm you. One last night in this refuge. Scenes and stories lie in wait, unprocessed, raw, they long to be put to paper. All of America spreads out ahead of them and you will not be there for it, but elsewhere. Mourn the loss. Make the most of the bits you have.

It cannot rain forever.