Fourteen-hour day behind the wheel, watching the weather transform before my eyes. From the early misty morning in Birmingham, clearing to a bright blue day as I rolled over the hills of Alabama listening to William Faulkner stories from my iPod. Bruce Springsteen sang to me through the flatlands of Mississippi, where it’s still green, except for the spent cornfields, and over the Chunky River. I decided that Rosalita is the best song. Ever. Then, when the sun was high, Casey Neill carried me over the bayous of Louisiana, through Ouachita Parish and into east Texas, ablaze with white wildflowers. Hawks ignored me from the trees as vultures circled high, cascading out of their swirling kettles to glide through the skies.
And ten-cent coffee? I ain’t in new york, anymore