I’m going home to Barton by way of
Craftsbury, after hearing The Master speak
Chinese-American for an hour or so
at the Galaxy Bookstore. Passing
glassy Eligo, I’m thinking, Hey, I’m
pretty sure this hill wasn’t this steep when I
came through here before, this rockface wasn’t
inching down toward the road, itching to
reach out and snag my fender last time, was it?
No matter. All hills will be leveled, all
rocks fade away, the same way sound
fades away on Cold Mountain, the way
there’s nothing but horseflies and a high,
translucent moon to remind you you’re alive
and sitting behind the wheel, going nowhere.