By Dylan Manderlink
the steam from my cracked, thrift-store find mug clouds the mountains
as I wonder who buys these #1 Dad mugs earnestly.
I stay cocooned in my sleeping bag with tent doors wide open
welcoming the unwelcoming cold of the morning.
I like these mornings on my own and I know I’ll miss this nomadic living.
I look down at my coffee, the swirls of brown and white, the steam warms my face.
No one knows this is what my mornings look like. They’re just mine. I share them with
the mountains and the coffee. The constants in the chaos.
I’ll miss these mornings.
