Occoneeche

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Mystic mountain sailing through time. Hillsborough is a fog creeping up your feet. Mountain laurel testifies in your quarry pulpit: “Stone feels harder in brutal sun.” Sourwood choir sings the refrain: “Thin detritus feels drier in humid air.”

The woods were somewhat moist. I mean, Occoneechee Mountain is always dry, but in mid spring, it felt not so parched. The southern heat is only beginning. Jessica and I ran along the loop trail with Benji along side off lease, over tumbling ground, rock strewn. Over and back making small talk. Down by the Eno, in the northern shadow of Occoneeche, we got to the meat of the matter: grown up things, middle age things. It’s the summer of our lives, and, say, is it getting hot in here?

I know she wanted to stay longer and explore more. Admittedly, so did I, but I was thinking of getting back for story time.

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