Its opening the pipes on a rusty old truck named 'Character' down five hundred miles of four lane searching for that place I can find some traction again. Its taking a right past that cafe named for a waitress, on through that jerk-water town named after some long-rotted tree.
It's dusty white rock, and gravel roads calling me back to that sandy two track off a ten foot oil.
It's the old hound barking at skunks on the porch, and rusty trucks turning at the mailbox miles away.
It's knowing you're back where a rifle is just a dusty tool that hangs in most pickup windows. It's where a pistol just belongs with pliers, in a tackle box or on a belt.
It's back where a place is inextricable from its sense of time, not in years, or decades, but generations uncountable on one hand. It's recalling some vague knowledge that Old Man Tilly wasn't to be trusted in the old country, maybe that's why his get have been honest as they come ever since.
It's knowing a fair jag of what happened here between the beaver years and the railroad. For a place nobody seemed to want, it's sure seen a sight of fightin, livin, an lovin.
It's feeling the coming mood of the grass in the meadow, and the cattle in the hills. It's feeling how much that little puff cloud on the horizon wants to be hail about supper time.
It's how the feelings instantly wash over as you sink into that bed and realize you haven't slept like you are about to in years.
It's... farther than just five hundred miles down that four-lane from here.
It's more than that.
It's... more.
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What I 'Felt' To Say Was...
Poetry"Poetry can be therapy, so shut the door and get comfortable, we've been through a lot since our last visit. Glad to see you brought coffee. Just a reminder, I know this is expensive, but like life there are no guarantees. I do expect to stir s...
