"The moon-rise is maybe my favorite thing in the world."
Mo says, "Same and my second favorite thing is Max Patch."
The moon-rise is humble but it's a king. It's even more of a king when risen over Max Patch, this colossal field a dozen miles above the border of Tennessee as you begin to rome into North Carolina. It's naked and treeless, just tall blades of grass during the summer when it doesn't get mowed as much as it does in the winter. My best of friends, Mo, and I are up here tonight on a surprisingly chilly, June night.
Mo, in his usual cheesy slang, says, "Wash your paws, fella, this is a night you don't wanna dirty up."
We aren't really experiencing a ball dropping in Time Square tonight. We aren't exactly robbing a bank or doing anything adrenaline-rushing for that matter. Mo always says, "This is a night you don't wanna dirty up."
"Didn't the weather man say there'd be low wind chill anywhere near Asheville?"
Mo says, "Even with wind as dead as this, there will be debris."
What he means is, every 13 years or so, a number of cicadas just decide to flood the nation. Sometimes, with high wind, the skin of cicadas will fall like leaves or feathers and might land on you.
Mo points out how the consistent cicada noise is droning out the wind-howl.
We really had too look for a spot that wasn't covered in dry shells that these suckers left behind.