In 1980, my mother packed the Pontiac.
Packed it with two boys, one girl, a dog,
and all her unknowing about a place
called Missoula. Packed that Pontiac
like it was her own belly, full of baby,
and followed the needle north. Out of
Amarillo plains, the continual wind
the last companion, running along
like a yellow mutt after its mistress. The
unraveling sky, the teeth of peaks, stone- 
bottom creeks, and the high ice-age
shorelines —a destination
can be named, a place pictured, story
written even in lines of hills,
and it can stay unknown. Dustbowl
and sage cede to granite and pine, y’all
becomes a holler swallowed. Or doesn’t
and all these things live at once.
Her new roots will burrow deep. Still,
someone is always a stranger here.