Lincoln

We roll into town at the last rays of sun, golden hazy cornfield sun like a full moon behind us and I don’t know if the smog is wildfires from the west or just business as usual it everything is peach. We wander the streets under neon lights and wonder who lives here. By the looks of things, mostly the young. They embrace Friday night like there isn’t a pandemic, like another crack in the armor of democracy just broke like a heart in mourning. We have a beer and a smoke and take pictures of quiet brick alleyways and string lights in dark corners. 

In the late afternoon, in a small town surrounded by fields, I stared at a pony express station and marveled again at history, at human perseverance and dogged determination that there be a future. She writes from the west coast and says you’ve never sounded more sure, that’s why I believe you now, and you know she’s right. You know what you want now, and it makes everything else irrelevant, like you could take it or lose it. I walked across the land in search of the good word and perhaps the search was the word all along. I sleep a heavy sleep. Vow to keep looking, come morning.