The Last Full Day of Summer

I spent my last full day of summer standing on the high bald watching North Carolina fold into Tennessee. Of course, I am only repeating what others have told me-- that some square room full of men once drew a fat, graphite line subdividing rock and redbud, pine, and maple. As far as I am able, I believe them; though I have seen with my own eyes the gloss brown eagle backs dragging their flight shadows in lazy circles across the wild grasses. Eagles have no interest in jurisdiction, and I have very little, though I am interested in a farm down that a-way where come July you can pick your own blueberries. The wind is mighty up here. If you turn to face it, you hardly need to pump out your own cold lungs. If you turn away, it will yank your hair straight to the roots smacking the sharp ends into your soft eyes and mouth. All that is the earth that waits below yawns wide arms evergreen and ochre, while a choir of high clouds, saints, and southern angels, tumble a new hymn in violet greys across the low, round miles.