Once more into the folds of time. Morning light, rising and stretching, slow and languid across the ridges that line the valley where we grew up. memories folded and layered into landscape. salutations of the forgotten familiar. dark loam and the earthen drift of winter oaks, the red tail low and lazy across the pasture. the frozen drift of smoke above a tin roof. calf turned to cattle, pasture to forest, a church shuttered, another opened, a graveyard full.
Somewhere there, the deer who will be in the field this evening, past the church that closed, just before the driveway dips and disappears up towards the holler. Silver shadows, each of us still and always surprised by the sweep of if, the headlights and the things that don’t change. Speak nothing of those that do. once more, towards the warmth of home, dirt track and deer trail, the familiar not forgotten.