Yesterday we found ourselves in the most ancient of Appalachia, a preserve named Catoosa, which lies atop and on the western and eastern slopes of the Crab Orchard Mountains, the foothills of the Appalachians. I am beginning to feel an oldness creeping into me made aware by these old lands. I sense a tie to them as if the trees, boulders, and streams are ancestors, my most ancient kin. They are just beginning to show signs of springs rebirth, a varnish laid on a deep primal. This varnish of spring on me is not lost but is so thin on my oldness as to not be easily noticed. I reached over and held my lover’s hand. It was warm. Her varnish applied to me.
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