The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.” —Walt Whitman

Fifty-eight bucks. Nonstop to Denver and back. My hometown of Houston has bellied up, with storms of nature—and of life. I’ll ride the lightning on a cheap-ass plane and head for a mountain lake in the morning if it gets me anywhere but here.

The airport is sleepy this morning. A small handwritten sign on the counter of the budget airline lets me know they won’t even be around for service until a couple hours before the flight. I burn some time with a book of Walt Whitman and the second coffee of the day, and people watch for a while. Is it just me, or are all of us getting weirder?…

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