I drove through the Laurel Highlands
yesterday and was tempted like
Rip Van Wrinkle to go into the mountains
and not come out. To let time pass
on some road beyond the mountains,
to not see change but in the cycle
of seasons the words linear and time
untranslatable in valleys and streams,
fog lingering in hollows, caught
by the tops of trees. But I was on
a road taking me to where I live,
where stories have built a home,
a place of refuge, a place to go to,
a place to see my children
pulling into the driveway. The mountains
receding in the rear view mirror.
Home only forty miles away.
-Byron Hoot
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