7 hours sitting in the back of the pick up on the way to Colorado
and the big sky obliterates the distance ahead of you. The sun
sets the silence from (you are living in the past) the passing cars.
From the window you see a daughter face her mother and tell her
one by one how many mistakes she's made (caught and gotten away with)
and the road behind her, though she can't see it now, is made only of stories
and stories continue to tell and retell themselves
until they no longer resemble the road behind her
but the distance others have yet to travel.
(Your life is more than your story. Tell me: what else is it then?)