Old School on the New

Old School on the New Early in the damp-frosted Virginia dawn five miles before breakfast up and down this nameless chunk of Appalachia— quick step and quick mist breath in the chill near the bridge, passing lemon yellow aspen, crimson maple, cinnamon oak and a few mint pines. Sapsucker drums an old rhythm above the ancient din of the singing New River and a wood thrush warbles and churrs from a lightening limbed black cherry. Orange juice, sunny side eggs and stove burnt coffee for me, an egg and fish for the Lab who follows me out back to split wood, chasing the flying hickory chips, probably wishing we'd go hunting for quail. On that we agree. Crisp black evening—wintery with a lace of snow. By the flickering hickory fire we share a brace of fine birds, a brook trout apiece (picking soft bones from salmon pink flesh) and a little dry catawba before I retire to my den to write one small letter celebrating this life. —M. F. Donakai 12 ...