Tonight I am on a greyhound west. Slouching sideways in my seat. Head resting on sleeping bag, knees propped on fanny pack.

Here is an image from the weekend, a slumbering camp in the belly of the train. Human family diversity at its finest.

Some nights I sleep alone, tucked in folds, hidden from sight on the side of the road.

The other night in Tucson, I found some tribe and we slept on the living room floor and one on a futon. They sleep like this every night, in the morning folding up their sleeping accoutrements. I like this, it has the feel of a nomadic camp. It keeps the mind fresh, I feel.

The other night on the amtrak, I spent the evening talking with a fellow who’d spent time at the dali lama’s place in the Himalayas. He told me about nomadic Tibetan tribes who huddle together for warmth and share affection with each other, sometimes many men with one woman and they all take care of the baby.

Sometimes I sleep in the arms of lovers, cuddled, slopped arms flung and legs twined. Spooned. Forked. Spent.

As it says in Where the Wild Things Are (the movie), Let’s all sleep in a big pile! I love getting glimpses of this, nomadic camps…