I’m the man who gets off the busat the bare junction of nothingwith nothing, and then heads backto where we’ve been as thoughthe future were stashed somewherein that tangle of events we call“Where I come from.” Where Icame from the fences ran rightdown to the road, and the lone womanleaning back on her front porch as shequietly smoked asked me what didI want. Confused as always, Ianswered, “Water,” and she came to mewith a frosted bottle and a cup,shook my hand, and said, “Good luck.”That was forty years ago, you say,when anything was possible. No,it was yesterday, the gray iceboxsat on the front porch, the cropwas tobacco and not yet in, youcould hear it sighing out back.The rocker gradually slowed asshe came toward me but neverstopped and the two of us went onliving in time. One of her eyeshad a pale cast and looked nowhereor into the future where withoutregrets she would give up the powerto grant life, and I would darkenlike wood left in the rain and thenfade into only a hint of the grain.I went higher up the mountainuntil my breath came in gasps,my sight darkened, and I sleptto the side of the road to wakenchilled in the sudden July cold,alone and well. What is it liketo come to, nowhere, in darkness,not knowing who you are, notcaring if the wind calms, the starsstall in their sudden orbits,the cities below go on withoutyou screaming and singing?I don’t have the answer. I’mscouting, getting the feelof the land, the way the fieldsstep down the mountainsideshugging their battered, saggingwire fences to themselves as thoughboth day and night they neededto know their limits. Almost still,the silent dogs wound into sleep,the gray cabins breathing steadilyin moonlight, tomorrow wakeningslowly in the clumps of mountain oakand pine where streams once randown the little white rock gullies.You can feel the whole countrywanting to waken into a child’s dream,you can feel the moment reachingback to contain your life and forwardto whatever the dawn brings you to.In the dark you can love this place.