On a Bus in Minnesota

February 18, 2026

Old silos lean like tired Uncles
Farmhouses squat like Grannies
Rows and rows of yellow, rows and rows of brown
The land does not hurry for anyone. 
The low hills roll slow like sleeping giants
The skinny trees stand tall and thin
Gossiping in clusters, swaying
Did you hear? did you hear? did you hear?
The grasses catch the early light
and glint, just briefly. 
Lakes of snow still freckle the cold dirt
February packing up its bags
taking the cold with it
and, it takes its time.
The clouds drag their dark skirts across the fields
Rays of sun break shadows 
like curtains opening just to say
Remember how you missed the warmth?
Remember how you begged?
The sun comes up slow and golden
the way good things do
unhurried, unbothered, enormous
Spilling color like it can’t help!
and I think about you.
Gold loses it’s glint 
the sunrise is complete. 
How I wish the golden glow would stay forever
moments gone
as things do,
as people do, 
and the seat beside me
is still just a seat
still just cold,
still just
yours, if you wanted it.​​​​​​​​​​