an old writer and his words

When you drive on back roadsyou develop a differentsense of direction, of place.You know you’re in the Southby the trees, Spanish mosshanging like heavy rainand stealing the leavesof smaller trees, andall manner of thingshanging from or affixedbetween trees, a tire swing,something passing for a hammockand endless clotheslinesannouncing that herethe seasons are measuredby rainfall and temperaturesthat…