A Place Just Right

The Greyhound reels over creaking axles. Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer, a green mélange thickens, yet inside our trundling tube, joints rattle, gears burn through paunch and muscle. We lurch over a crest down into a holler An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio: When we find ourselves in a place just right 'Twill be in the valley of love and light. I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,' to be at ease in these bucking bones, even when breathing this smother of body odor and diesel. Then we dip down into a valley. At a wooden store advertising cold beers we stop. "Is this the right place?" I ask. "It’s as close as we get", says the driver.