Covered
Covered There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered. -Nelson Mandela Mile 1 When leaves turn the color of summer squash, weightless, broken and brooding, like underground springs, take the log truck route, with weekday determination. Cover up; morning air is the best alarm clock. Remember that day, when all you could offer was integrity, when your eyes crossed the country, when Oregon pulled back, when that return promise was sealed. Savor these days, when time is no longer on trial, when even adults call you “sir.” After all, it has been 40 years since you’ve seen your mother’s face; Highway 19 narrows like the river, both tiptoe from the high country, where riffles sing, pocket water promises, and desire, like sunlight, gets filtered. Mile 20 First comes the covered bridge: a red cabin riddle, with side door and dubious origin. Fishermen