By Andrew R. Duckworth
There are gravel roads, may they never be paved, that hold history. They’re a mess and they shift, get washed out by floods. Somewhere down the road are my footprints out in the middle of nowhere—the history you know but at which few others care to look, the history everyone makes once in a while—footprints so insignificant until hundreds of years later when one cracks open rock and finds it there long after you’ve gone.
Poetry and Essays of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 