Enga mellom fjella

The Heartland is my home ... "Sioux Falls"

It is grey; It is below normal 50s. The warmth and moisture of Kansas seems so long past. I'm chilled. ... And tired.

I'm sure I'll sleep tonight. I took a long hot bubble bath after walking home from the bus depot. Made coffee, bought a focaccia. A bit exhausted.

Enjoyed the three booms of thunder to announce our passage into Wyoming at sunset last night. Nothing quite like dark grey clouds with a golden lining. We made our Billings connection with ease after the bus arrived late in Sioux Falls. Nice depot, but nowhere close to absolutely nothing.

South Dakota looked a lot like Kansas until we crossed bluffs by the river. We don't have pines in Kansas. There's nothing like the old volcanic Black Hills neither.

My travel companions on this trip included Ruben from D.F. Mexico and Juan from Georgia and Mexico; an older (84) gentleman from Iowa/Washington and a young man (with a black hat and religious-community garb) who constructs log cabins from Montana.

I'll have time now to read blogs and reply more. The trip was tiring and I didn't feel much like writing. Even my Journal suffered.

Present thoughts? The Heartland is my home; Montana is where I need to be.

Past the cemetery of eleven pines
the bus tires whine and the yellow-green sheen
blushing the bushes
tries to hide this ugly sprawl of human boredom:

Excerpt from my new poem "166.49 Sioux Falls*" 

Montana: chill grey, 50s.

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