Thomas Divide

Thomas Divide We used to sit at Thomas Divide along the Blue Ridge Parkway, waiting. Waiting to hear tales of an old man and an old woman living down off the bank where the asphalt ends and earth begins. Waiting to see them come up to bear-proof trash cans to get their supper, waiting. Waiting to see the lights on and above Newfound Gap, miles from where we sat flashing our high-beams to invoke them, waiting. Waiting for "Ah, those're just headlights from cars traveling through the Smokies." Waiting for "Park Rangers say the lights are natural gases." Waiting for glowing reds, golds, and blues, to shoot high above the ridge at Clingman's Dome, forming lines, circles, and crosses. Waiting for a flaming white sphere to creep through the air and through the trees and through our windshield. —Debora Kinsland Foerst *> M m % W m ...