Not always a poet

I had thought, in the last days and miles of California, that I would need some time at the border to reflect on all the great things that I had gained from my time there. Nowhere else had I been that felt so abundantly present and safe. Even the shape of the state, two great ranges of mountains circled around a five hundred mile long valley, suggested two hands, cupped, palm upwards, holding the yosemite, sequoia, San Joaquin, redwood. I, too, was held there. There should be gratitude for that. 

And yet, when I saw the sign that told me I was now in another state, all I could think was "Holy shit! I walked to Oregon??"