We wind up the road, violent greens assaulting our senses – emerald and neon and kelley and pine. Branches laden with moss arch over the street. It’s a banquet of growth.
I compare this to other mountain roads I’ve known, but those were really more hills and valleys – like the gourd on a soup ladle.
He is here. All face scruff and skinny pants and ink. To him, I imagine coming here was a lot like sliding into a warm bed at the end of a long Winter’s day – the comfort and embrace.
I don’t know that feeling.