There is a mystique attached to this: Traveling. City after city. State after state. But I can tell you & they say it so much because it is true, "Wherever you go, there you are." Here I am: Harriman, Tennessee. Fried pickles. Peanut Butter Pie. Rolling hills & trees. Trees that I do not the names of. I lament that. Not knowing. How can I have come so far & not know these names? How can bird after unidentified bird land there & escape my knowing. But the rest...? A bridge. A sagging fence, barbed & rusty. Inside, inoperable machines. A once thriving, or, @ least, hopeful business...deserted. A sandlot filled with young girls playing softball. Most of them are unexceptional except the one pitching who windmills the ball with grace, velocity; a ferocity that speaks to something underneath. A wisdom. An internal fury hurling pitch after pitch @ the heads of fat little girls & into the unknown.