Western skies are grey. She looks up at them, peaking from under a bridge. Sun hides behind clouds. It’s just come up. Moon glowed throughout the night. The woman slept with an empty bottle of malt liquor beside her. Stars kept her company. Used to be a man who kept her warm. Now it was a bedroll she bought at the Goodwill; a book bag for a pillow.

She dreamt of horses in her sleep. Wild mustangs, quarter hosres, ponies. They were all brown with no saddles. No riders. Just running on the sands of a beach in California. Some place she’d never been, but was bound to get to. She wanted to see Big Sur. Read about it in books by Kerouac. Knew it was the home of Henry Miller. Steinbeck danced there, too. She kept these writers, men in her bag. They were the only men she had faith in. She wanted to see their homes. Walk where they walked. Drink where they drank. Everybody has a dream, she said. This is mine.

But, for now, she slept under a highway in Iowa. She had a compass telling her to go west. A map of America showed her which way to go. Like all of us, she tried to follow it.

Her bones hurt. Muscles ached from walking. She was hungry. Stole cans of sardines and jars of peanut butter. Thought about when she was a little girl and her mom made chicken fried steak for Sunday dinners. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans with bacon mixed in. And now she had sardines with mustard sauce. The price we pay, she said to herself as she opened the a tin can. The price we pay.

The young woman promised herself that when she got to California, she’d settle down. Get a job. Live a normal life, she thought. But, for now, she was free. And, like Janis sang, Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

Ain’t it funny? Following a dream. There are worst things we could do. I suppose.