For rollin' hills . . shoppes in the centre . .

            Faquier . . the America to be . .

       At the bottom of acres a'green . .

  Past random mills. . and where the mount'ns

      make my wood thrush whistle. .

      for the Cherokee spirits . . Fauquier.

 Met a man, real well known 'mongst the townsfolk

 Tom Frost . . big hands . . hair like sandy shores.

      He was a well read fella' too, drank wine an' beer

 called whiskey "fire water."

      My guessin' was his mama had Cherokee blood

      an' somewhere along got mixed up with some

      French merchants 'long the way . .

 But Tom Frost was a real successful type . .

 an' he ain't never braggin' 'bout it . .

     He offered me a ride up to the Potomac

 in his fancy wagon . . and sips of his fine, fine wine . .

      Said the Gray Ghost Winery owed him one . .

 and laughed like a barrel o' grapes . .

       . . So it's past the zig-zagged fence posts . .

       . . in front of the slender white house;

       eight tiny windows candle lit . .

       . . it's past the tavern

       . . it's past the trees, lookin' haunted

           in their death . .

           twisted limbs, black bark skin.

 

  And now it's four in the mornin' waitin' on the sunrise . .

       Blue Ridge Mount'ns little devils reach . .

  Piedmonts below . . Frost an' me dig claw an' tooth

      into where darkness roosts . . and the twilight sky

 meet the sillhouettes of mount'n tops . . a void . .

      We sat an' spoke of the life of cap'ns and fishermen

 and fog wallows in b'tween foothills . . monadnocks

      lookin' like a harbor . . Chesapeake Bay . .

 Frost had described to me over a night cap

       of wine an' barley ale . . I rub my eyes . .

  an' find out where Heaven lies . . b'tween

      water droplets an' footsteps on trails . .

 How strange! the ways of God . . .

 How curious! the divinity of the soil . . .

             . . . the soul of the leaves . . .

             . . . the innocence of the hare . . .

             . . . the silence of the whitetail deer . . .

  The artist paints orange an' pink into the sky . .

  clouds meltin' into mount'n tops an' it speaks of . .

        Union an' divide . .

    . . freedom an' liberty . .

    . . truth an' deception . .

    . . science an' religion . . .

 We wayfair . . .



 To be in travel with comp'ny . .

 is to have a lantern . . observin' with your own . .

       To show paths that I failed to hear . .

        in my Wood Thrush's Song in my wake . .

        or the Hermit Thrush's in my dreams . . .

 Frost an' I travel through Fauquier an' Loudon County . .

 to the Potomac River bridge . . where River runs wild

      like a thousan' injuns cry for salvation an' mercy . .

      an' the tears of a thousan' slaves more . .

 Frost say it's as far as he's gon' go an' that freedom

 is my destiny an' I need to deal accordin'ly . . .

 gives me fifty dollars an' embraces me like I had cleans'd him . .

      I am Mar'land bound and a smile circles roun' my face . . .













                                                                                Bascom V. Bairfield

                                                                                June 15, 1887

                                                                               Washington County, MD

I have £20,000 that says that I can make it back here at precisely 8:45 pm on December 21, 80 days from now. With the new railway open in India, I shall make great speed!

ask me anything