They’d made it
to a trestle bridge in Tennessee.
Watched a sunrise light the mountain fog
and had the musk of morning raise
a chill along their arms.
At a diner,
waiting for more summer,
a shift change waitress war
reminded them of stinging nettles
they’d stumbled into
eighteen hours east.
A day they prayed wouldn’t be an omen
as they moved out into another dawn.