A haibun on nomadics

Homeless. My hermitage the road itself, and the box one travels in. That shelter of air and refined metals, that bubble of silent consciousness in which you can feel the road but the air whistling by is not loud enough to deafen. Unless you let it in. This cell on wheels. I bargain for lightning, whenever I stop at a waystation. It's too cheap to buy, you have to give something up for it. Feathers on the wind, perhaps, or a root buried in the sun. I go within, where there are echoes lingering from the last wave of memory that washed in here last decade and has been rippling ever since. Waves don't die, they just degrade into brown noise. After all, you mount up and ride off, and the road moves under you, but it's the earth spinning, not you moving; you stay still. Inside, that inner stillness, you stay still in there, while the world vibrates past you, untouched.

roses at the window
my lonely companions—
dreams of travel