Should pour out grand piano music for them, ribbons of right-rain and wild horses running in the densely sodden field of wet fog, a heavy birch and scorch-fern pasture dotted with silken spiderwebs, the gray mares and fiery Mustang watch with intent as a skittish brown foal trots next to the fence on shaky, new-found and swift toothpick legs.
A Cherokee arrowhead pond is just over yonder a ways, the carved white rock and faces etched into the mountainside, the caves look like strange mouths, the ample burial mounds and crow skulls line the thistle-peppered hills like crude artwork savagery, unhappy portraits in the freezing drizzle, the sharp-edged shards of shale rock look like broken pieces of a lunar base, the clay-colored water and rotten barns of Clermont, the brittle milk-dried skeleton of wooden shacks and ancient timber and lime, a bushel of rusted iron nails and timeless locks for the cellar doors.