moonlight on leaves like snow and chime of owl from this hollow’s heart under a rib of Humpback Mountain a late-autumn wind broke its teeth against these rocks
It has been experienced many times that mountain people live where they do because that is where and how they prefer to live. —A History of the Daniel Boone National Forest 1770-1970, U.S. Forest Service Somewhere along the way to being must also be belonging, because being is not an…
I’ve got a banjo six feet long and a red-handled Barlow knife, so I’ve got the credentials, Mister, to do the things I do. It takes a lot of ﬁguring and time to do it. The barn is just an empty church, a solemn spirit is inside it. Something was…
Death is opening the paper hearts of the milkweed, unclasping hands that held their secret all summer. Coated and mittened against November-cold, I ease along a hillside path and listen to the rustle and sift, the small talk of tall stalks in the wind: they are shaking out their…
Take measured steps. Don’t jut out your hips or swing them too much. You will look like a giraffe, or, worse, a whore.
I heard him use the word, directly, and I knew he was cut from the righteous cloth. Knew he was of the promised land, folded and refolded onto itself to create mountains and ridges and hollers.
See how wholly they open to us in death, to the moon, to the red elm scabbed with mites. —Bruce Snider Of course you are imagining an afterlife for roadkill, but have you ever slowed or even stopped to look closely at a raccoon’s teeth buried in tar to the gums?
extending beyond the edge of a pin-stripe and polka-dot quilted Appalachia, where voices lope like pickup cams, come unbolted and jettisoned over hollers, to lie forgotten and bursting into Kudzu.
Without a mother’s advice, I gather what I’ll need. At a store in town I look for something with appeal for an experienced man. A nightgown–
driving to meet you in that mountain town road canopied with trees sun through, flashes of river running alongside