Three Rivers, Michigan (March 2017)
On the other side of the bridge from the historic timeline mural where a lone Indian gazes longingly into the past, I stumble on a bright red duffle bag, the remains of a fire, a blue blanket, an empty mustard bottle. I nudge the bag with my toe, which is stuffed to bursting, but relatively lightweight. Having thought I was alone, I suddenly sense the possibility of eyes on me–if not the immediate eyes of a haphazard runaway, then the eyes of generations who camped along this river long before bridges and murals and duffle bags.
