They name the streets there after places they�ve never been. They resent each tumbleweed caught in the pacasandra. Ten times around the block, I still couldn�t find my way home between Tarrytown and Minuit.
The porch swings barely swing. We just hunch our shoulders til noon and wink back at the house across the street.
One mile could be ten. Five hundred acres could be several.
There�s a breaking point in necks and shoulders, and we honed it meticulously.
34n45, 92w17
We made love parked in a brown field strewn with abandoned Wal-Mart trucks, our stationwagon hidden between two. In the quarry across the valley, construction vehicles slowly roused themselves.
A few miles down the road, we watched a house burn down. The fire was smoldering; two men picked through the remains. Three brick chimneys stood uneasily amid the rubble. There was little left to burn.
35n51, 86w23
The square is all barbershops and smokeshops. Two children count cicadas on sidewalks that gleam white under the insects.
It is July, I think. Mock oranges splatter under balding tires. On the courthouse steps stands a man in uniform with a broom full of cicadas.
Once every thirteen years, they descend for a month upon backyards and highways. They burrow into tree roots. Their din is relentless.
For a month, nobody stays outside. They shout over the screeching. They tiptoe to their cars.
35n36, 82w33
You're counting the cattle in between every cemetery. The lone graves by the side of the road marked by blue and white two-by-fours and wilted carnations don't count, you explain. Nor do the three white crosses crowning each hill.
The Atlantic is only six hundred miles away.
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