The day to cross the Mississipi. The bridge is down on the 80 and a gentleman with a pleasant toothless smile sits at the last rest stop before the river to help travelers who are confused by the detour. He sits and reads a book with cowboys. He knocks on my window and generously insists I come with him into the little rest area house so he can show me where we are on a map.
Iowa
on the verge of east.
The day gives some resistance.
Road and mind traffic.
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