Across the country, down south and turn right, in the western hills of Virginia, sits an old farm, cabins, bunks, and barns. Once a year certain writers travel there to spend a week dreaming, eating, writing, rafting, sleeping and writing. In the heat, in the humidity, cottoned in the hum of mosquitos and the lowing of cows, letters turn into words, words into stanzas and paragraphs, stories and poems settle onto paper. Like leaves afloat on the Cowpasture River, lazy drift is punctuated by rocks and eddies, the swirling of currents that land, at last, at a yellow rope separating draft from finality. This is where I will be, soon.