In Transit

learned to trust (we both have our limits here—I don't stand behind her and yell, she doesn't try to bite). I am a friend of hers. She makes that evident. We have not greeted one another to her satisfaction until we have put our noses together and exchanged breath. She is fond of old Hank Williams songs and she prances when I sing them. I am also a source of apples—let us not forget what is really important. We've come some distance but this is a progress bulletin, not a final report. We've got years, work, and miles in front of us. The years and the work are, for my money, the real pleasure of the horse. The miles together are the icing on the cake. In Transit Heading south on twenty-three, a little surprised to find mountains still here. Standing like chocolate drops with expensive fillings, in winter. After all, they said, "We're building big roads to open up the region; get things out ... be in Lexington before you can smoke a cigarette." Nothing comes back, save the rumors of warm Cincinnatians, and happy steel workers in Gary. But the fourlanes carried more than coal, and those first who left as passengers now return as freight. Honest muscle and pristine savvy were welcome breezes through the smog of northern industry, but what could they do with a mountain boy in Detroit? Except indulge him all his days, then send him home to rest among strangers. —Charles M. Whitt 44 ...