Leaving A Small Motel

Sunlight knocks on the door like Housekeeping.

It even has that kind of voice, like it hopes you aren't there but will go away if you are, employing an enchanting melange of English and Spanish.

You open your eyes. Some news is breaking in your brain, but there's no New York Times at the door. For a nanosecond it's a little unclear where you are...

o yes, the great west where the buffalo roam...

but you have a pretty good night sleep under your belt, some cold cherries in the cooler and an espresso hut up the road that you passed on the way in.

A good three hours before check-out time you're ready to hit the road, part of the big herd and all by yourself.