Milk drains out of the bowl. Leaving Buena Vista like soggy cereal lining the bottom. Two hiking spoons to stir it up just enough for one last bite of crunchless marshmallow stars. The endless drone of distant cars. Highway noise on top of cold mountain hot on rocks in the morning sun. More than a day. More than a chapter. More than words. A true adventure has begun. Bowl of cereal now cleaned out and empty. Farm rashes and Lincoln Log buildings. Toys. To eyes. On top of tall places. A meal all of its own type and accord, bright against our squinted faces. Two spoons sit dry, but ready. To mile by mile. And walk across breakfast.