In the mountains of Tennessee, elevation unknown, the winter clouds and rain were indistinguishable, the air itself the icy vapor it released. In-between peaks long ago cleaved by decisive blasts to make way for travelers such as myself, the mist settled on rock in gauzy drapes, slowing the less adventuresome in right and left lanes alike. Behind the cautious, I played at patience, and looked for opportunities. Passing the exit for Rarity Mountain Rd. I spied three cyclists, each with wind-breaking outer shells to protect them from the storms they could weather, though this tumult proved to be too much and lodged them beneath an overpass. It was somewhere between there and Hyslop Cemetery I saw him. A lone rider, worn and sinewy, head long cleaving the clouds as an upholsterer's scissors slicing layered cotton batting, steadfast and certain. He donned no gear against the elements save a leather jacket, and he bore no sign of discomfort. I wondered at how many times he might have traveled this road. How often had he encountered this weather? I had a sense that later, as his chapped skin brushed a yellowed pillowcase, alone in a room rented hourly, his last fading thought would take him back to the stinging kiss of slicing cloud become rain. And he would sleep deeply.
