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Every night we opened our map,

added up miles, circled the stop

we would cycle to next.

Time existed as a series of moves,

its passage marked by borders and towns.

Yesterday Thistle. Tomorrow Price.

We plotted ourselves like points on a graph,

measured 55 miles here to there.

Holding flashlights, we charted our route,

studied terrain, our sacred text.

Green River, Utah

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