Moving westward. Finding best words
To ease from highway, copper hay-fields, fuel-stop signs --
Words like "breathe", "release", "talk radio",
Nothing but, "Oh." Windows rolled down to show
The disappearance of humidity that pools on Piedmont porches, arms and shoulders,
Its cool sweet absence heavenly.
Shakes limbs high up, mounted on stilts
From Guilford, Forsyth, Yadkin, and Wilkes.
Summer's vapid envy lingers, a jaded lover still longing to drag you down,
But with every county's line she is weaker. Compromising
At last surmising: heat's best when balanced
With elevation and the mountain highway's open, airy channels.
Trudging machines packed with granola, flannel pullovers, and sweet tea cups
Move up, one gear shift at a time, eyes trained on distant layer-cake
Made of beige and brown hills, topped with Blue Ridge ocean
Like paint smudged on a canvass --
Eardrums' static popping, a smooth trail through carved-out hillside,
Stone handfuls piled high.
The short twist skyward, in Watauga,
It's hard to mask the harmony inherent in this cradled town
That isn't home, but gives you things to think about
The whole way down.