Mr. King loves to drive and a true writer, he notes everything--roads, highways, byways--or maybe he just looks up the names on Rand McNally but he doesn't mindlessly drive down these small little turn offs --he eyes them and maybe he sees shapes of green and splashes of blue that are there but we don't see them because we aren't looking. Mr. King looks, and listens and smells and feels --that's how he knows there are secret places in them thar wood. I love this story--it clings to me--it's ephemeral like the mist rising in through the leaves and branches leaving little droplets of mystery. This is language with a light hand. I can't pin it down but this one tells a story but stronger it leaves you with an other worldly feeling. This one leave me with ache of longing. It's one to emulate.