One year after my death, and still I wait atop this blue ridge each hour before dawn. Shrouded in mist beneath these silver maples, a whippoorwill steals my silence. Damn him. Leaving no trace, I tread into the cloud-covered valley where my fears condense, and then release me. Cresting the next ridge, I stand on the bald and hear the Grist Mill Spring churning and the bells of Story’s Creek Church. Is that you in the pitch of the pipe organ? Here on Andrew’s Bald, I wait, with no breath to hold, for a sun that will not rise.
— Diane Fitzsimmons