This hotel room looks empty as we leave.
I repacked the cooler and day bags.
Everything goes in the same place
even as all routines dwindle to
today’s Tour de France:
on the laptop.
The clocks change
as we cross state lines,
drive past pine-covered mountains,
lines of July snow on the highest ridges.
At a rest stop, the song of an unseen bird echoes.
Tonight we’ll sleep deeply,
perhaps dreaming of home, that bird,
and the road south.
We are on the road to Tucson, a 1,600 drive down past Yellowstone. Yesterday we crossed Idaho and reached Missoula MT. Place names along the way reminded us of the Lewis and Clark expedition, and we wondered what it was like to cross this mountain country in the 1840s. Early roads routinely washed out. Not many people live in this land of snow, but as we reach Missoula, the land flattens to valleys and a sense of respite. The mountains remain a presence, though. Today's prompt came from Robert Lee Brewer, #141 "empty".