We’re near the birthplace of Buddy Guy, and the mockingbird hopping around in the parking space next to me would certainly be singing the blues if it could. I’m making coffee on my tailgate, and it’s cold–so cold that I periodically put my hands down my pants so that they warm enough to perform the next step of the process: put the grounds in the percolator; assemble the stove; light the stove. All around, semis idle, brakes hiss, and engines are coaxed into gear. There are probably several hundred semis here; the drivers are eager to move–restless–reminding me of the times I’ve seen birds stalled by bad weather during migration. There’s somewhere to go, something to do–elsewhere, down the road…and when the roads clear; the weather breaks; the push to get on towards the destination is urgent. I watch the rigs roll on out while I hold back, let the pack charge on. Rummage through a snack bag–bright green, like the pistachios I toss in the general direction of the mockingbird… I’m guessing we’ll both be here awhile.