Rolling downhill, a pair of baby elephants take their geologic time.
I could hear the ghost of a roaring fire.
It was a good day on the river. Sun thought so, too.
But it was closed.
Beyond the vanishing point of this view, the wind blew a faint train whistle up the tracks. The train was saying hello to the Houston House–the best place for fried chicken when I was a kid–and as it left tiny Newburg, tucked in a deep Ozark valley five miles away, the train had a half-hour chug up a long steep …