Off a Country Lane In the Hills of East Tennessee
The clouds like to hang low over the mountains to fill up with rain. The air gets warm and thick. Whitish mist meanders through the hollers in the early morning like the ghosts of fallen Cherokee braves. Coffee is brewed and sipped slowly. Only some of the clocks work here. The Bed and Breakfast smells of fried apples and buttermilk biscuits. There are no hotels. I come for brief visits for a glimpse of the past. The sound of chirping birds erupts from a still and stagnant air. Every now and again a draft waifs through the pines and red buds. On it the scent of a nearby tomato patch. Everything moves slower in the countryside. The language is spoke more slowly as is the pace of the horses. Breakfast is consumed slower as is the service. There is little rush in places that time has seemingly forgot.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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