The Road to Hi Hat The Road to Hi Hat
Sunrise hurt the cat-owl’s eyes. Crows go to ground in the slim valley. Past Hard Shell, around through Softshell’s barnless swallows. Transhumance older than the hills: Up the mountain in May to see the spindly sourwood flowers. Down in the fall with the firelit honey. Even the river stones show early autumn: wet scarlet, sugar-maple bronze.
May 16, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Merrill Gilfillan
Cradle Knoll Cradle Knoll
All the bloodhounds in the world touch down. Wardens come from miles around. Last night a lazy dream, footage of a full range tossing under storm, wild zydeco wind up from the south via Hurricane Gap, leaves in the air, gullies surging, foaming brick-red— Van Gogh’s hair, sickle-cut, or General Sherman’s. Grouse drum on hazy ridges. Down the road a place called Muses Mills. White-throated sparrows sing their whisper-song. All the bloodhounds in the world can’t pin it down.
May 16, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Merrill Gilfillan
Blue Ridge: Streams Are Roaring Blue Ridge: Streams Are Roaring
Morning in the shade of a persimmon tree. Later, downstream below a hornbeam. A shy man hollers from across the valley. Every other rhododendron flower holds a tiny bee, just the way each macaroni shell in pasta e fagioli eventually holds a bean. A little Italian goes well up here. Latin, too&emdash;castanea, ruficapilla, caroliniana: Paroles: Dogwood calls the catbirds. Black cherry calls the blue.
Nov 16, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Merrill Gilfillan