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Destination

Destination Joseph Bathanti Appalachian Heritage, Volume 20, Number 4, Fall 1992, p. 40 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1994.0012 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/435990/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:18 GMT from JHU Libraries Destination Imagine this cleft through the recall of the Ulster Scot, ten score and a generation vanished, roiling in a bark canoe on the then Cherokee river, Estatoe. Destination is bred into us. On the last hairpin of 226, the road disappears; the world seems to stop in the blue and cloud-laced vault we know as sky. For a moment, one is nowhere, orphaned in midair with the birds and pine that abide there. West, due south, Mount Mitchell ploughs its mile and then of rock into the mouth of God. Only heaven is taller. Ghosts murmur on the Roan, red hands still mitered to stone blades. They sleep on beds of rubies. The wolf notches his eye at the spindle moon. Bears climb higher above the clearcut spires and spin out of the sky to the broken wood whitening like dinosaur bones. There is no time here for vertigo, no room for doubt as to the planet's http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Destination

Bathanti, Joseph
Appalachian Review , Volume 20 (4) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Joseph Bathanti Appalachian Heritage, Volume 20, Number 4, Fall 1992, p. 40 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1994.0012 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/435990/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:18 GMT from JHU Libraries Destination Imagine this cleft through the recall of the Ulster Scot, ten score and a generation vanished, roiling in a bark canoe on the then Cherokee river, Estatoe. Destination is bred into us. On the last hairpin of 226, the road disappears; the world seems to stop in the blue and cloud-laced vault we know as sky. For a moment, one is nowhere, orphaned in midair with the birds and pine that abide there. West, due south, Mount Mitchell ploughs its mile and then of rock into the mouth of God. Only heaven is taller. Ghosts murmur on the Roan, red hands still mitered to stone blades. They sleep on beds of rubies. The wolf notches his eye at the spindle moon. Bears climb higher above the clearcut spires and spin out of the sky to the broken wood whitening like dinosaur bones. There is no time here for vertigo, no room for doubt as to the planet's

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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