Excerpt from The Rhododendron, 1975, Vol. 53
You think of short trips to the rainbow-colored caverns in Linville where blind fish plough the underground river like the lost tribes seeking the promised land, evenings spent at Wiseman's View searching for the legendary Brown Mountain Lights and theorizing about their myth-shrouded source, or raucous weekends at Holly's or the Villa Maria. You imagine the rapid slamming of clogger's feet on a hard oak ﬂoor and the blatant shock of that first sip of white lightning at the back of your throat. Or you imagine the fall of apples, like small fists applauding their own crisp ripeness, of the first snowfall when the white crystals seem to fall out of a saw-edged sun and drift to the ground like vanishing manna, like tiny slivers of a spun-glass dream.
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