Do you orient yourself so as to see what’s coming,
or what has just gone by? Do your cows angle
forward in backward pastures; is there spinback
on your trees?

The east-streaking rain on the observation car
window as we careen out of Montana
is telling. We all travel how we must:
facing, not facing.

This is the best of my present
abilities. The five days packing for a four
day trip. Pill by pill,
shirt by possible shirt.

My mind is not what it was,
because it is becoming.

The Columbia opens suddenly to the north
and south, encircling us. I wasn’t wrong
after all, to expect a river on both sides.

Mount Hood’s summit emerges,
a great white fin,
whose body below reorients
the wondering, and the wandering.
Isn’t it good, I say mostly to myself,
that we’ll all arrive together,
no matter where our minds go
in between.