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“Once in a while, as she sat there, a whippoorwill would call under the window, an owl would hoot from down in the pasture, or out in the woods there would be the quavery little cry of a screech owl, and these were her favorite sounds. They bespoke the mystery of the night, not sweetly but hauntingly, half savagely, the way it was. Ah, the way it was even among humans . . . ”
— Wilma Dykeman, The Tall Woman

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“The Great Smoky Mountains”

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In: Nonfiction

We passed some rushing waterfalls tumbling over rocks as they splashed down the hill. Daddy said that June was the peak season for the rhododendrons that grew wild in the park. As we drove along, the roadside was lined with their pink blossoms and waxy green leaves, and beyond them the lush green hillsides, one after another, becoming blue and then a hazy kind of slate gray as they faded off into the distance . . .

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