That morning, I drove in the bright sunlight on ribbons of pavement that lay gently on the snow-covered hills against the deep blue sky.
Ray Lamontagne sang about trouble.
I sipped good, strong, black coffee.
I was by myself.
I like being with others, but I also like the times alone.
To sort it all out.
On the edge of Appalachia, the hills disappeared.
Across the Ohio River, the stacks pierced the sky and bellowed white cotton.
One hundred years from now, they won’t be there.
They weren’t there one hundred years ago.
That’s what those kinds of day will do for you.