Probably my second favorite number named town

Living in a town with only one, extra lonely stop sign turns your guts crosswise and grates your neck bones funny. Pink paint is not cute; toesies over the line and salt shot is a courtesy. At the county line, Busch Lite thirties are stacked low on a rough, poured floor- no boots, no service. Keep your B&C low, this is meat country; does eat better anyway. Contrails never, if ever, I never. Asphalt not required, tread studded with gravel, mud splashed fenders, one sign will suffice, mileage unknown, read the sun. Pentecostals worship outdoors, the Baptist prefer clapboard. Blue gingham drapes over a female skeleton, fit grey hair bunched up on her head. We don’t swerve for deer, but for bulls. Balls up and send word via the nearest tractor. “From around here?” “No sir, moved during the snows, but my grandmother was raised up in Garland County.” “Them springs are nice.” “Yes sir, God’s country for sure.”

Is it worth it? Absolutely. 

Small stockers, but fished by my lonesome. No chaffed elbows, nor foreign breath whiffed. Silent, but for a kind out-of-town couple destined for pus-filled red legs.

Love,

Spring Bear