Pinky Fingers Crossed

Sliding up on Locust Grove

Foothills speak of mountains

Red clay feet

to find our way

and ears to hear

your dark banjo sing

Patchwork leaves

 

Olfactory memories of a change in season

We roll along

past Atlanta’s maze

and look for roads

to cut walls through slate

 

We can trade

instrument for steering wheel

every couple hundred miles

Creep outa Georgia

singing Nashville songs

Wander trails

with our pinky fingers crossed

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