This little mountain.
He will know where he is going before he ever learns where all he was.
Held fixed within a body with legs. Static. Sitting still. Car seat. Buckled in.

Seventy five down eighty one.
Running away from home again.

Little hill.
Mini mountain.
Rooted like water.
To nothing, nohow, not ever.
Falling into beds like snow.
Royalty raining over drought plagued nations.
Little king.
Four tires rolling.
Strapped to a back. Strolling.
Don’t just put a pin in it. Go bowling.

Move. Make it tonight.
Between parental continents.
Mountains arise. This one too. And soon.
We’ll see him like we never have before.
With eyes.