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| My parents always say I would have made a good pilgrim. |
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| Maybe they are right. |
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| I often wonder what it would have been like, |
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| To cross the vast depths of prairie in an early 1800's covered wagon |
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| How to begin to imagine the seas of bison? |
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| The first sight of mountains, |
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| The encounters with strange humans, |
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| The deaths and hardships, |
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| The building of a myth. |
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| How curious |
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| That here I sit, nearly a dozen generations since, |
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| Amongst this patch of houses, |
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| Connected by a massive grid of electricity and cement. |
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| Why? |
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| Am I here? |
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| Why this life and not another? |
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| How much more time until I'm gone? |
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| Returning to where I came from, |
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| That dearly held secret. |
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| For here I reside |
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| Amongst this strange cacophony of wonder. |
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| Why me? |
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| Why now? |
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