Here are the Twitters that came out of a whole lot of hours driving in a car full of sleeping children. It might be a new genre of poem.
The lake below Multnomah Falls is still. Deer at the edge stand in their reflections.
There's brown pelicans in the Columbia on a sandbar near Biggs.
Rock sheep on the cliffs near Philippi.
And windmill farms outside of Arlington.
Just past the Bradock Slough and there are fields of Black Angus and a row of white bee boxes.
Horses spook near Cement Plant Rd. A palamino bucks. The running herd turns in the field like birds.
I think it was a deer in the sagebrush with its elegant neck and ears like cupped palms.
The Ontario OreIda plant belches rings of white steam. Wonderland Caterpillar of Potato. I'm just a girl, I answer.
Corn. Corn. Wheat. Corn. Potatoes.
Boise. We wave our hands out the window to my friend Justin Larson. Of course he sees us.
Kristen says the sky is always the same dome but I think it reaches further down here. Down to the curve of the earth.
Four days later. The sun rises over Brigham City. Leaving Utah.
There's cows and sagebrush at Sweetzer Summit. And sun over the East hills.
Something you don't see at home: billboard of close-up dairy cow udders. Jerome, Idaho.
There are windmills at the 45th Parallel. Must be windy halfway between the North Pole and Equator.
The first time Becca saw the Columbia at Umatilla, she said, "That's not a river! It's a lake." Only the R's and L's were W's and she was 3.