how many homes can a single heart hold?
we pass a well-worn exit and i think of one:
i remember in layers.
first airbrush tees, bungee chords, rod runs, and pancakes.
then mountain haunts, waterfalls, grass stains, and bare feet.
in quickly passing,
i curse the traffic,
but smile as i see the light.
for all this once-home’s strangeness, the truth is plain to see:
local means most where tourists roam free.
heading out of the crow’s nest for a week plus on the road –
snapshots recorded here.