There is no country charm, no glimmering canopy of starlight, no pregnant harvest moon, no inviting inglenook with hot mulled cider; just a thick, inky blackness that creeps over the hoary landscape like undiluted sloe oil. I glance over at the speedometer, taking comfort in its familiar glow as the tiny ribbon of asphalt that once connected us to the shiny lights of civilization dissolves in our wake. I sense, more than see, winged predators swooping and diving in the murky owl-light of the northern fields. The fetid odor of late-autumn crops and fresh roadkill seeps through the cracked weatherstripping of the passenger-side car window; despite... More >>>