No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belong to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way around.
– Margaret Atwood
--Today, write a short travel poem.--
The travel could be physical travel, in which case you could write about modes of transportation or arrival/departure locales (or places in between). But you can also write about the places you travel to in your mind.