Stevie Morrison

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. She brought triple-insulated gloves, marshmallowy-thick pants, and a Gore-tex boot for protection. Yet the bitter winter winds were unrelenting. Alone in the frigid bosom of the Appalachian Trail, Stevie longed for the honey-sweet sun she remembered so fondly from her time in the South of France. And, curled in the fetal position at the base of a leaf-less tulip poplar, she sang a chanson to herself in a tuneless whisper. “Aux Champs-Elysées / Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit”