The Need of Being Versed in Country Things

I take the old way to the Mountain. Instead of following Hwy 72 all the way to I-24, some twenty miles out of town, after crossing Crow Creek, I turn onto AL-117, a forgotten two-lane road that runs more or less north through the open hollows that lie between the small arms of Summers Top and Warren Peak. There are some corn fields and some cows, a couple of tiny towns, but mostly just the rolling hills of north Alabama that really are indistinguishable from middle Tennessee. For me, this where the drive begins. Seeing the countryside unfurl before me as I take the sharp turns is tremendously satisfying. At the state line AL-117 becomes TN-56, and I cross a second set of railroad tracks. The road is flat here, and it winds wide around the base of the mountain. On the way home the other night, when the moon was almost full, I saw a field on fire. It was a bright, smoky line some 100 yards long. My dad guesses that the owner was burning off the weeds and their seeds before he puts in beans sometime in July. Several miles later, I pass No Business Rd, which according to my map, dead ends in Crabtree Hollow. Shortly after this the road begins to climb, and once I crest the Mountain, I turn onto Hwy 41, less than a mile from the campus. In the mornings, the drive has become something of a ritual for me. And, after a week of reading Frost, I have these lines in my head:

Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.