I guess everyone has their own thing that they yell into a well

Waiting out a storm in Big Lots parking lot, Christiansburg, VA

Randolph Park, Dublin, VA

A few nights ago, I found myself on my hands and knees following broken mounds of mole trails around my back yard. I had planned on trying to get rid of the moles, but as I crawled through the damp grass I had a change of heart; I felt a kinship with the subterranean creatures blindly tunneling through the darkness. Suddenly I was half-humming/half-singing "If I's a mole in the ground, I'd root that mountain down" and "I been in the bend so long, yes, I been in the bend so long." Down among the moles, in the bend. My thoughts weren't clear. I was in that sort of free associative state where ideas and images drift and dissipate and mingle like night clouds. While humming the Lunsford song, I was simultaneously thinking of Deleuze's rhizome concept, how the moles turn the ordered, domesticated space of my lawn into what D+G call a "body without organs." Lines of flight. A means of escape. "Find your black holes and white walls and know them." In many ways, crawling around my yard in the middle of the night was a (failed?) line of flight. "Nothing on top but a bucket and a mop and an illustrated book about birds." Looking down into a hole, an image from Gerald Vizenor's Trickster of Liberty came to mind. In the book, characters scream their frustrations into what he calls "panic holes," burying them? or implanting them? in the ground. I whispered my problems down to the moles, and the peep frogs peeped and the hound dogs bayed and the darkness circled.