Merrill Gilfillan

The Road to Hi Hat The Road to Hi Hat

Sunrise hurt the cat-owl’s eyes. Crows go to ground in the slim valley. Past Hard Shell, around through Softshell’s barnless swallows.  Transhumance older than the hills: Up the mountain in May to see the spindly sourwood flowers. Down in the fall with the firelit honey.  Even the river stones show early autumn: wet scarlet, sugar-maple bronze.

May 16, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Merrill Gilfillan

Cradle Knoll Cradle Knoll

All the bloodhounds in the world touch down. Wardens come from miles around.   Last night a lazy dream, footage of a full range tossing under storm, wild zydeco wind up from the south via Hurricane Gap, leaves in the air, gullies surging, foaming brick-red— Van Gogh’s hair, sickle-cut, or General Sherman’s.   Grouse drum on hazy ridges. Down the road a place called Muses Mills. White-throated sparrows sing their whisper-song.               All the bloodhounds             in the world             can’t pin it down.

May 16, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Merrill Gilfillan

Blue Ridge: Streams Are Roaring Blue Ridge: Streams Are Roaring

Morning in the shade of a persimmon tree. Later, downstream below a hornbeam. A shy man hollers from across the valley.   Every other rhododendron flower holds a tiny bee, just the way each macaroni shell in pasta e fagioli eventually holds a bean.   A little Italian goes well up here. Latin, too&emdash;castanea, ruficapilla, caroliniana: Paroles: Dogwood calls the catbirds. Black cherry calls the blue.

Nov 16, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Merrill Gilfillan

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