Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir

Arizona Grosbeak, Piper's Gap, Virginia

Ben Chasney (Six Organs of Admittance) "Elk River"

And right now what she loved just might come shining through

Ripshin Road, Troutdale, VA

Last weekend, I drove up to Hungry Mother State Park to support/photograph the Carroll County Cross-Country team, who I've been running with for several weeks. Rather than drive back down I-81 after the meet, I decided to take the backroads through Sugar Grove, Troutdale, and Independence. Sherwood Anderson lived in Troutdale for several years, and his farm supposedly still stands somewhere on Ripshin Road. I drove 10 miles or so down Ripshin--until it turned to gravel and started to twist down a hollow through the mountains--with no sight of Anderson's farm. I did, however, find a peaceful vacant lot where I snapped the above photo before leaning back in the seat of my car, turning Lou Reed's "Coney Island Baby" on low, then closing my eyes and attempting to allow the stillness of the place settle into me for a few moments.

I can see for myself that the sun is sinking, how I wish you were here to see

Galax, VA

No, I didn’t want freedom. Only a way out—to the right or left or anywhere at all. I made no other demands, even if the way out should be only an illusion.--Kafka's Ape Addressing the Academy

smile awhile, forget the bile, and watch it all come down

All the Right Moves, Hillsville, VA

--2 by Charles Bukowski

in the shadow of the rose

branching out, grubbing down,
taking stairways down to hell,
reestablishing the vanishing
point, trying a different
bat, a different stance, alter-
ing diet and manner of
walking, readjusting the
system, photographing your
dinosaur dream,
driving your machine with
more grace and care,
noticing the flowers talking
to you,
realizing the gigantic agony
of the terrapin,
you pray for rain like an
Indian,
slide a fresh clip into the
automatic,
turn out the lights and
wait.

nirvana

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.

he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.

the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.

the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.

he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.

the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.

then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.

the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.

but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.

he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.

then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.

the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.

they had not
noticed
the
magic.

the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.