Sensing I’m about to leave is my first impression of every place I arrive.
Moisture clings to the air.
Summer breaks with thunder; winter settles into mist.
The world sometimes clears, but more often hides in a mildewed haze.

I wonder if leaving would change anything—
if sunlight could truly open the day.
They say I’m making too much of it.

Highways cut the landscape into fragments.
I wish every road I take
were already an arrival.