Island of Pines

Living on an island of pines and dirt roads, only the trucks break the silence of things. A roar that disappears. How alone we are. We grew up here, in cabins astride hillsides, clinging to hills, about to tumble, but never tumbling into the valleys. Astride the hills, we take to our ATVs and Keystone Lights, seeking euphoria in islands of booze, even as it flees us, even as the mountains beckon us to be better people, their dusk shadows gently chiding our worn souls. We promise to relinquish them, to spend time with nature in full communion, but we keep going back to the little markets for more, seeking adventure while we linger in the beer aisles. We complain of things we cannot have in cities, streetlamps and bars and fun at our choosing. We talk of escape, but we stay and complain. Pave the roads, we howl. But we feel the beauty of dirt on our bodies. We claim to hate the pines, but at night, we whisper our appreciation after the beer and illusions have left us. We watch the moon, even as we complain about the brightness of country night. We live in an island of pines and we want out. Not just today. Tomorrow, perhaps. Perhaps. A shaky perhaps, as shaky as the things beneath us.