t is dawn in Appalachia. There is a van in the mists. There is a Poet beside the van. Steam rises from an arc of golden urine. Near the smoldering ruins of the fire is an apple core. A deer moves away from the apple core and into the underbrush. There is the rustle of cellophane and the flicking of a lighter. There is a sharp inhaling sound and there is a pause, and then a rushing exhalation and a sigh. And then there will be coffee.