sun burn on my shoulders 
new freckles on my nose 
spring peepers singing in 
tandem with whip-or-wills 
all night long: so humid out 
picking June apples, so tart
they pucker your lips but
you eat until you’re full
to bursting; porch swings
and evening songs that 
echo all down the holler

beaches are fine and dandy
the mountains out west a 
real sight to be seen but,
Lord, there ain’t nothin’ 
else in the world quite like
Appalachia in summer