While idling in traffic on my way to work, a young man in the car beside me motioned for me to roll down my window.

His eyes were glassy—between high and haunted—and the muffled thump of rap music pulsed from his stereo.

“I just wanted to let you know that God loves you,” he said.

Then the light turned green. He veered right without another word. I drove straight ahead, the moment trailing behind me.

Was it a joke? A dare whispered between him and the passenger beside him, both stifling laughter?

Or was it more unsettling than that: sincere?

Because, really, the joke only works if he wasn’t joking.

***

Spring has claws this year.

Elsewhere, it tiptoes in on cherry blossoms and allergies. Here, it shrieks down valleys, drunk on rage and wind, tossing barns into creeks and turning ditches into rivers with ravenous mouths.

In Tennessee, we welcome the season the way one might welcome a god with poor impulse control. Bring us light, we say, but maybe not fangs.

Leave your thunder-beasts at home.

***

Sometimes, I feel like we’re all blindfolded, flinging darts at a map that’s upside down and labeled in a language that no one understands.

***

The city ends without warning.

In the rearview, a gas station flickers out of existence. The road devolves into gravel, then shadow, then something deeper.

The dark doesn’t chase you out here; it waits. Patient, alive.

You realize, too late, you’ve been trespassing on the backroads of something older than the stars and far less forgiving.

Even the moon won’t follow you this far.