groundwork

the arts of existence — Part 1

	Lining the Southern Tier, bare veined limbs reach out as if panicked, holding onto a few dry leaves that just won't let go over purple & brown carpets of their dead, compressed then abandoned by winter.

Car sightings are sparse. Occasional groups of buildings are set off the road in sleepy clusters of bare knuckle industry.

Local radio warns of high winds. In the center divider, a broken feathered bouquet flinches in vibrant orange tones, one wing vertical as if reaching straight up, towards where it was before crosswinds brought it to impact level. 

	The destination is a family-run motel found on the online outskirts. Forty-two dollars. Booking by aol or phone.

Its reviews are sagas of initial doubt at first sight that, after checking in, turn into cherished memory testimonies — a challenge, they realize, to their dark, innate assumptions which reveal to them a new way of seeing around expectation — just short of life-changing. Tributes, really. 

You reserve by phone.  

. . . we’ll check in next time with traveling absolutes — the arts of existence — Part 2 . . .