They say she’ll be coming ‘round the mountain when she comes, and I’m sure that’s accurate, because she has been known to come around when she comes around, down the mountain, through the pines. The road finally straightens its windings and flattens its bendings, and she and I can cruise straight clean across the celestial southwest, psychic and calm.
We’ve left the pines behind in Appalachian song but somehow — still — they’re all around us. In memory, they’re a little bit taller, a few extra inches of snowfall.
It could be a cool Sonoran night; it could be Christmas eve in Appalachia. Sunrise. Moonrise. Curved Light. I don’t remember in which order. The incidents start to blur. They say that these rocks tell stories but I don’t know; there’s a lot of interference out here.