Nomads

Sometimes, there would be gatherings. A camp would spring up, in the desert, at the base of a mountain, along a stretch of rocky river. For some reason, they seldom happened in forests. 

The nomads would arrive. Some came on foot, others arrived in dusty cars or rebuilt vans. 

They would come from places as mundane sounding as Springfield, and from places as exotic as Sault Ste. Marie.

Sometimes, nomads would come from places further away. The Hollow Earth. Ancient Mu. Arcturus. These nomads would stand out in the crowd, at least at first. But after everyone sat around the fire and traded a few stories, maybe shared out some beers, they would just be ordinary folks.

And no one cared, really, if the person sitting next to  you wore a dinosaur-leather jacket, or wore a cloak of dusty feathers or had a third eye. Everybody was just folks. Everybody was just drawn in by the road, by that unnameable wanderlust all the nomads shared.

For a day or three the camp would exist. The gathering would metamorphoze into something akin to a community.

It would not last. Everyone knew it wouldn't. No one ever expected it to last. But for the time that it did, it gave the nomads a strange sense of belonging, of having found their tribe as they wandered.

And, eventually, the gathering would end. The pull of the road would become too strong and the nomads would pack up their belongings and be on their way to the next destination. Maybe Salt Lake City or Miami or the Gates of Paradise.

And the last person to leave, the lingering soul, might stand by the remnants of their campfire, looking toward the horizon and feeling something throb in their chest, in their souls. And they would smile and gather their things and answer the siren-song of the road, looking for adventure or peace or something only they could name.