Leaving Public Lands

I fold the chairs
and shake the dust from the rug,
pour the last of the coffee,
and watch the morning
crawl across the desert.

No checkout time.
No front desk.
Just tire tracks fading
where the wind has already begun
to erase us.

I pack out what I brought in,
leave the fire ring cold,
leave the stones where they were,
leave nothing behind
but a place in our memory.

Then comes the little brown sign—
the boundary.

Public land behind us.
Pavement ahead.

And somehow,
even after days of saying
this is mine,
the leaving makes it clear:

It was never mine to keep.

Only mine to wander,
Mine to protect,
Mine to love for a little while—

and then
to leave wild.