Marshall and I drove up to hike Mcafee’s Knob with Jalvis and Meg and did.  You drop your pack and walk up to the edge of the cliff and look out over a thousand foot drop at least, sit down, see the ridges stretching out over Virginia like ancient molehills of the giant prehistoric moles, and all the clearings with very small white houses or brown wood barns built on them.  We set and watched the sun go down in a mother-of-pearl ruddiness in some silence and some birdsong and some conversation and hiked back toward fire and dinner in the near-dark.

Last night we dressed up ostensibly for a nice dinner out but instead it was a nice dinner in, in a field, with candles, the long greenness sweeping away toward the sunset and birds, cows & deer at first, then fireflies, crickets and frogs fading in with the gathering dusk.  I know I will write about this more later, but right now we’re up the next morning listening to more songbirds and an Iron and Wine song on one of the most beautiful guitars I’ve ever seen. Watermelon, blueberries, cereal, coffee, Reddi-Wip for breakfast overlooking the field where we sat last night, watching bluebirds where we were last night with our elbows on the table in the hugest greenest room I’ve ever been.  With a peony floating in the bowl with the candles.  Right now we’re up talking about Iron and Wine songs and how we’re going to visit St. Stephen’s Episcopal on our way back to town, which is twenty minutes from here, which is where Van and Davy’s ashes were scattered, which is where I will find more things to write about that I don’t know yet.

In Virginia I’m becoming friends with three people that I love so much I hardly know where I am.  Except that I’m in Lynchburg, on this wooden deck at the foot of that long blue-green ridge over there, between Marshall and Jalvis and the collapsible breakfast table holding green glasses, black coffee cup, a sense of wonder, a sense of life.