i admire this piece of writing very much. it's rich as a pudding, with lots of plums to pull out.
>All that is left now is the most beautiful valley, the old blue mountains, the volunteer sycamore growing alone high up on edge of the cliff slashed along the old Indian trail which became, after the turnpike, after the railroad, Interstate 81, its yellow and red leaves turning over and over in the breeze, glittering in the wake of the tractor trailers.
oooooh! i've seen the leaves. i've been blown around by the slipstream of those semis, too.
i'm halfway through but ready to respond, will take the rest slowly and enjoy the plums.
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>All that is left now is the most beautiful valley, the old blue mountains, the volunteer sycamore growing alone high up on edge of the cliff slashed along the old Indian trail which became, after the turnpike, after the railroad, Interstate 81, its yellow and red leaves turning over and over in the breeze, glittering in the wake of the tractor trailers.
oooooh! i've seen the leaves. i've been blown around by the slipstream of those semis, too.
i'm halfway through but ready to respond, will take the rest slowly and enjoy the plums.