by Boyd Allsbrook
Leave your parents’ home at dawn and get a biscuit at Bojangles. Do not as yet consume this. Now go—down the sleeping interstate till you hit the turn-off for old Leicester hwy. Empty road. Blue-grey sky. Keep your thinking down and try your best for gratitude. Redact yourself behind the wheel and let the cool light wash through you. You are heading for the farmlands. Smell wet grass and donkeys on the ridge; honk and set them running. Feel the minty stillness of things and do not be hidden. Lean east and west with your sedan as the weak sun peeks out between high pines. There is no better morning to do this thing.
Drive. Hear the whine of mis-crossed stereo wires as the pedal hits the floor. Let tires screech on bad tight roads and roll along with them smiling. Be one. Be here. Be alive. Drive. Hurtle through rising cloudbanks up the mountain. Climb on snakelike and keep your breath in at corners’ edges. See poor folks’ houses steaming shingles in the morning. Nod at ruined cars and trash laid out without disdain. Their rusted bikes and freezers clash against this perfect hillside, and it’s good. It is all good. You are in the mountains and the sun still rises. Drive. Spiral up in meditation. Have the windows fully down by now and make the engine churn. Scream a little. Hot flecks catch and linger in the morning dew to hold you there. Swerve in awe across the double lines and smile; you are alone. Make dogwood, rhododendron blur with speed. Close your eyes maybe. Let the wind rush in between your ears and whisper there this morning: close your eyes, maybe.
Accelerate. The sky is brightening beyond black trees as streaks of high cloud dance and spiral way above you. Be speed. Be silence. Climb higher on above the pass and feel the city leave you. See vacation rentals flash by too fast for thought. Solar panels wink orange and face you shieldlike. The tourists are sleeping. Close your eyes. Accelerate. Feel the looming edge. Know that lights on Patton Ave mean that life goes on without you. Close your eyes. You can do it. Climb higher still. The peak is coming soon. Close your eyes and press the pedal down. And thy will be done. Close your eyes and let your lids go hot red with the morning. Accelerate. Be at ease. Close your eyes. It’s like the womb here.
Screech and stop above the world. Smell your brakes like burning centipedes and laugh a bit. The sun has breached the furthest mountain’s edge and you are up a mile over Asheville. Eat cold chicken standing high above it all as the light breaks on only half your face and the thunderous wind rides whipping down to call it out: good morning.
