Harper’s Ferry in June

The road to the cabin flipped and flopped,
sat high above the ditches with sporadic
splashes of gravel. Road ruts. Twice we bottomed out.
Listened to the undercarriage scream and scrape.

When we turned the last bend, we saw her.
Perched on a nest of stilts and rocks. One 
all purpose room and a gazebo for coffee
and wine time. A Whoville House in Harper’s Ferry.

Citified, I waited for the bears and the wolves. 
Predators to scoop up the puppies. Hunt us 
down for dinner. They never came. Not once 
during the mini-vacation. 

Instead, relaxation and calm baptized me
with the sounds of the Shenandoah River. Only 
afterwards did the predators appear. When we 
descended the mountain, pulled out into the blacktop, traffic. 

Headed back to being back.