The winding S of red tail lights cuts a line through the Ozark Mountain Range. The mountains rise like giant ink blots against a navy blue sky dotted by only the brightest stars. Even those are dimmed, road weary from light-years of travel, I think. Matt once told me that it’s the light pollution that all but obscures the Milky Way, at least here in America. Our grandfathers saw the sky naked, he says, glory un-shrouded by the lack of street lights and skylines. The stars were waypoints back then.
The elevations of the ink blots are pocked with brighter, man-made stars. Red and yellow, they blink from the tops of cellular towers and broadcast antennas. This valley has been radio-waved for decades now, and the sounds of Rock-And-Roll settle in its basin where the ink blots spill their contents into a thin stream.
The Mulberry River.
At night, while we travel up the highway, coyotes visit the banks of the stream and drink deep. If the moon were full, the river would drip iridescent from their jowls as if illuminated by a great black light. They haunch on the other side of the brush waiting for prey. In the morning the buzzards will circle like smoke over the remains and the truckers will imagine the ghosts that haunt the valley. A young deer, a lost hiker, maybe both.
Most of us travel this stretch toward Fayetteville, Springfield, or Kansas City. There, we’ll find our families, taverns, and places of worship. But for now we travel in a more pristine place, a range that hides its small communities. On the down side of these slopes lies Mountainburg, or Chester, or West Fork. Good people have settled in these hills and put down deep roots. They’ve made babies, started churches, worked honest jobs. This morning they attended Sunday services. The town drunk was baptized and the smell of whiskey was buried once for all in the baptismal pool. Bun-haired women shouted for joy and their long skits swished the dust back and forth across old planks as they swayed their hallelujahs. They’re always looking for a reason to holler to Jesus and if we stopped and rolled our windows down, we’d maybe hear it echo in the valley. Even at this late hour.
Welcome to the Ozarks. It’s good America.
***
This is my submission to Just Write ~ The Third. Thanks for the space, Heather.
Seth Haines 
i don’t know these hills personally, but you brought them to life.
my appalachia isn’t much different and i long to drive home, where not even my parents still live, and get car-sick on the windy roads.
good America if i ever saw it.
We like visiting Appalachia. It reminds me of home. For Amber, it is home.
And… hey. How’s all up there where our savior was born?
Bethlehem is turning fallwards and our oven apartment is offering myrrh as a thank you. I was surprised to find the same hills reach this far north, though the spirit of the folks is it’s own good ‘merica.
I know them roads. And you know I try my Southern-damndest to make an annual pilgrimage to them roads. I like the air. It smells like yes and home, even though I’ve never lived them spaces more than a week at a time. One time Latonya asked me what I’d do without her, and I said I’d move to Fayetteville. She laughed and I said she’d have to haunt me in Arkansas. She ain’t even fond of her ghost roaming a red state, but I’d birth, baptize, and bury all my kin in Northwest Arkansas if the Lord’d seen to it. Throw up a glass, I’m toasting your backyards.
Come on! We’ve got a spot for you and the Misses.
I love this, Seth. How is it that BOTH you and your wife have such a great gift for writing? One day, maybe you’ll write a book together. I can hear it rising up. You know, like an echo from the valley.
Thank you for joining me, fine sir!
Terribly kind, mam. I enjoyed joining the fine writers at your place. That’s a great forum you’ve opened.