There’s things that don’t bear thinking about when you’re driving home the long way, along sharply curving mountain roads banked there between a series of rocks and one long muscle of a river. One is the gas spilling now all over the Gulf waters, the other is the gas you’re spilling into that car that you’re driving back and forth along those roads. So you turn off the NPR and turn on the ipod, where you’re learning to sing traditional mountain ballads sung by neighbors you’ve never met, most of them dead by now. You’ve downloaded them from itunes.
Sing, baby, sing.