p a r k e d

p a r k e d f o r n o w . . .

A blue Westfalia sits against a backdrop of pines and stone,

its pop-top tent unzipped to let in mountain air.

A single bike hangs on the back, dust still clinging to its frame.

The windshield is freckled with the remains of the road —

raindrops, dirt, the miles that brought it here.

It’s quiet now, but the day still smells of fuel, pine, and open sky.

Some journeys aren’t about moving.

Sometimes the best part is stopping.