I wish I could show you the slip of a road I travel every day, the way the the black silk tie slinks into the impossible mountains. Mist hovers in the limbs, a scent you can’t catch, an old sturdy promise. Some days the moon slivers and winks in the still morning, jarring and steadfast at once.
Every day, heat or cold, sun or clouds, the haze hangs and swallows the road, the pines,sentries along the highway. It is a less-traveled road, and traffic is never a problem. A boon. I don’t know any part of the road from another. Four stoplights between here and there, and when the speed limit reduces, I know where to turn. Everything in between, the greenness, the glinting peaks in the distance, the horizon nearly cluttered with Appalachian ranges trumpeting into the north and east, ancient and new.
You can’t see it on my return trip, when I aim the car toward the west, toward the valley and the rivers where you are. Sun blinking in my eyes, slanting into my face, warming my skin, setting fire to my evenings. Clarity like a bell, or the sound of all our voices at the dinner table.