Shawdowy, drooping, black, hunched over shapes catch the eye and rip it from its' socket realizing there are a dozen or more of these shapes hanging in what used to be a living, vribrant tree. 

In Chatham and all around Pittsylvania County, the vultures live communally. 

Turning the corner from the highway, their forboding large, black feathered bodies lurk in the limbs of a dying tree. Recalling the mangled limbs and protruding red innerds of an unlucky white tail deer lying prostrate in the road, I came to a conclusion:

it seems the Vultures know about rush hour.

 

All visible factors show no need to pounce on their already still breakfast while cars whiz past, disturbing their feast.

 

  Vultures know about rush hour,

 

it will all be over soon and from then until around noon,

they can twist and tear that flesh and bone from limb to limb and be all alone. No honking horns, no screeching tires giving them rise to snatch and run, they've only just begun. 

 

I must conclude, as clues exude: 

 

Vultures KNOW about rush hour!

White Oak Mountain View

On a clear day at the top of White Oak Mountain you can see the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The hills loom up along the horizon like rock monsters. In grayscale, due to the distance, there is no distinction of green leaves or brown trunks, just mounds disrupting the blue sky, some are long ridges, some are rounded peaks, and one looks like an Eqyptian pyramid. Ones mind wanders towards them like the calling of the Sirens at sea or the temptation of mirages in the desert or the sweet smell of baking. The next morning, the haze returns and the mountains seem to have disappeared into the background, leaving a mystery for the horizon.

Pant legs flapping in the wind look as though they are trying to get away from that pinching pin of wood, hoping to catch up to the shirts hanging beside them. The wind holds their legs just far enough off the ground to keep them from running away in the yard. They keep flapping and flipping undaunted by their captor of wrapped twine and metal poles, seemingly unaware of their unanimated condition. White T-shirts hung from the shoulders seem pinched and tethered, helpless to change their position. Wind finds its way behind their opposition and pushes it out of the way. This is something you do not see everyday.

The Soul in Me...

Passing by the old cemetaries, I, of late, have caught a glimpse of shadows, spirits, optical illusions. Perhaps they are optical allusions. Spiritually tuned up, I feel them looking at me as I drive by. Their grave stones etched by the wind and scarred by the oxidation of water, can we even tell who they once were? Do they want us to know, or; might they prefer to remain anonymously frightening? I wonder these things as I ride past their haunts and peer curiously into the woods at their stones having become overgrown by trees and underbrush, guarding the secrets of their past. I feel a chill. I look away not wanting to disturb.

Their souls are wandering around in my brain tonight. The soul of my loving Aunt Meme, my "kindred spirit" as she used to say; the soul of Unkie her sweet" Mr. Wright" who loved me from deep in his heart; the soul of my dad puffing away on his pipe turning the smoke into fog; the soul of my mother singing her siren song; the soul of Paul, my dear sweet brother-in-law, gone too soon listening to all our conversations to pass the family secrets on to souls unknown, the soul of the recently departed Reginald Edwards reaching back to kiss his wife goodbye one more time; the soul of my beloved friend, Cecil Belcher, laughing at me having "some grass" for lunch. So many souls.

Perhaps their wandering spirits wish to roam, and; envy my freedom. My freedom to see them or not, my freedom to choose my way as their time has passed.

Halloween in Pittsylvania County where history is still living!

Jimmie Mills from Whitmell

Jimmie Mills was a great friend of ours who grew up in Whitmell in Pittsylvania County. Saturday, Otober 11, 2011, we celebrated his life with a small group of family and friends. We sat and listened to home town yarns reveling in his humor and what we always called "Jimberisims". One aunt told us what a beautiful child he was and how they would walk downtown in Danville on a Saturday afternoon as people on the street admired the cherub faced little boy. She said she was actually too young to be his mother, but that was what people assumed. She said she didn't mind. She was proud to be with him.

As a youthful man he rode a motocycle, but he wasn't a sterostypical "biker". He was gentle and chiding with his friends, caring and giving with his family. He loved to tell a good story and to make others laugh. We laughed through our tears and knew we all would miss his keen wit and winning smile.

His wife, Pattie had 68 balloons there, one for each year of his life. Each guest was asked to take one and send it off in the air. Michael and I waited until we reached the Whitmell community where Jimmie grew up, went to school and where his father owned a store. We pulled in to the old Whitmell School parking lot and let them go. They were pink and floated westward into the sunset staying an equal distance apart until disappearing from view. We loved Jimmie, he was a Pittsylvania County boy.

Free as a bird

I am a free spirit
I see the spirit in everything...
the cricketts sing, the church bells ring,

the wind blows, the truth knows,

I rise to the top like oil on water

I use negative thoughts as though it was fodder

I turn dirt into gold and never grow old,

my thoughts without limit...

Give me your peaceful spirit and I will give you a minute.

The leaves fall and are transformed into permanent shapes. They crispy up like fried chicken in hot lard. Their ends turn up or their sides turn down. Their crispiness sounds like tiny feet skittering along the roadway. The rain seems to soften them again and they clump up in the gutters and edges of roofs. They float from their perches on branches far above sliding from side to side like an amusement park ride. 
Appearing as feathers, when wet, stick to the first object in the way. Many leaves cling on into the late fall as though they cannot stand the thought of falling to the ground, or are unwilling to have their lives come to an end. Perhaps the leaves know that the tree will have to suffer the cold of winter with no blanket of leaves to protect and warm it. Maybe they are just too lazy to take the plunge. 
When all is said and done, we accept the leaves as they are: green, red, yellow, rust, brown or on the ground!