Stray Country

There is a country beyond that which is known to humankind. A stray country. A country that exists west of October. Whose borders are somewhere between midnight train whistles and the distant howl of a dog. A country that lies somewhere in the stitched and jittering static between radio stations. A country that drifts through America like a travelling salesman, but every now and then stops to nest on a small town. A small church. A single street.

And maybe, just maybe, some kinda delayed radio broadcast you've stuffed in your ears . . .