On the way home

Clouds in every hollow and ravine, hovering over ponds, hiding under the trees, snaking along the one-track rail line where they filmed that movie about the runaway train. Clouds above & clouds below us as we sail past on the interstate half-way up the ridge, talking about that afternoon’s matinée. And then the slow drive up our own hollow at dusk & the white forms of our houses rising from the fog. We set down our bags, take off our boots & go in.

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