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blow up your t.v., throw away your paper

go to the country, build you a home

plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches

try and find jesus on your own

[john prine]

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i pulled into springfield, or maybe springville, and i followed a ranch road that took me through the canyon. i picked up two laughing people, stranded by their broken fourwheeler. they piled into my passenger seat, she settled into his lap, twined fingers almost unconciously. be careful here, they said, step on a corner of your heart, otherwise you may never want to leave.
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they were zion born and raised, and as we wound down the wash into the town they told me where the best spots to camp were, told me that the land here belongs to the people, you can sleep anywhere you want for free. that ridge belongs to you, they said, pointing through the sift light. that cliffside belongs to you.
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i dropped them off and crossed into a line of ranch houses, with long green fields behind them, gardens, horses, river sounds in the distance. a dog leapt from nowhere up to my open window. i scratched his ears and he searched out my palm with his nose, found what he was looking for, then took off across a bridge, stopping to make sure i followed. i wound into this town of farmer's markets and hand-cobbled mailboxes like this, led by a dog over a road through a country that belonged to me.