On a Sunday afternoon in March I drove the three of us
back home from Asheville
I’d only ever passed through, never stayed
Neither of you had been out here
Not like me
I’ve been up to the lake and all its ducks at Kingdom Come 
more times than I can count

We took my dad’s route on the way back
My car danced its way around Pine Mountain
and I suddenly I was my father
Hoping you’d look up from your book
and out across the valley
as we ascended through the trees