Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Going home means anywhere but here, putting aside worn grays for the bright amber of a fall morning. No more counting days in the clack and steam of laundry. With the hush of brakes a Greyhound bus glides beneath the trees and past a shuttered smelter. Grisaille shadows. Chains of geese. A swath of sheepish sunlight on foothills south of Zion. As day dims the windows turn to mirrors, and the coach hums with quiet conversation, murmurs into cell phones. How might freedom feel after seven years away? Vibrations through the bootheel, with a cardboard box and bus fare to any place but here.