Two more miles to walk but I have reached the end of my journey.
Sycamore Creek is not big enough to swim in, but I can sit on its sandy bottom and let the water flow over my legs and chest, washing the salt and grime from my skin, the ache from my muscles, the fatigue from my mind.
I can see giant red dragonflies zip up and down the creek, watch butterflies wend their way through the flowers and trees, listen to birds call out their thoughts and desires.
It is as perfect a place as could be, and I could only get to it by walking 386 miles from Mexico. Getting here by walking the two miles from the highway would have brought me to a different place entirely, a place that would have beauty but no meaning.