The sun is lingering like a hobo at a food shelter. Some people are bold like colored markers. I just saw a salmon in the sky of clouds. Billy tried to take a picture and the scene expired. I was looking out the window imagining the narrative of my life.
This is Canada. Tall trees, bold green hillsides, gorges with expansing rock buttes performing in the passing landscape. These skinny spruces and pines look like sticks of dried pot.
We cross another dead moose. Birds were feasting inside the two wide holes in its head and side. Once I realized how connected everything is, it will be wrong to feel so alone. It's easier to be part of this earth when a sequence of life is apparent. Life is all, just about babies and death. The creek bed to the right of me looks dry. I think about the salmon.
A truck pulls off to the right to check their brakes.
Billy seems to attract authority. The car ride is becoming monotonous. I am dreading the 4 day drive back. The scent of Billy's chew makes my stomach turn. The last time we were pulled over, I smiled to the cop and told him I liked his sunglasses.
"It was the time of the last frontier, of wide open spaces, dark stands of evergreen, and graceful groves of white trunked aspen, of shining lakes and big empty sky above. The human population was sparse and rugged. Pioneers scattered over a seemingly endless expanse of wilderness."
I Breath and my body is at rest on a flower box. We camped at the 108 Mile Ranch rest area last night. This used to be a posthouse on the old Cariboo Trail. Everyone is moving so slow today. I watch a woman and her Irish Setter jog around a lake.
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