Kentucky Sketches

The borders between us are largely

an invention, though one can cross

from one state to the next and in

some way know the world has changed.

It is a particularly perplexing moment

when I realize that no roads end,

though one can be surprised by

sudden turns and the misplaced hayfield.

Rolling westward into Kentucky,

somewhere off of I-64, there is a

sudden vacancy in the road as a

bridge spans the most unusual

valley, a sharp and verdant V

anchored by what might be called a

river or an errant thought that drifts

across the blue hills and blue smoke

of this land. I turn off in favor of the

black post-and-board fences and

low-slung drystone walls, late-summer

flowers and tired tobacco barns.

These are farm and pasture lands,

not entirely devoid of surprise but

largely unaccustomed to it.

Even the trill of a warbler, slightly

out of season, tips the delicate balance

of slow time, as if it were embarrassed

by the momentary silence that follows;

an inappropriate laugh during a

serious lecture, the awkward applause

in the pause before a concerto is complete,

so that we are made to be aware

for an instant

of our presence.

c. 2012, Martin A. Bartels (working draft)

Part of my new collection, "Unlanguage."