The hills of Appalachia are wrinkled deep in time. Some points there, far from car-traveled road, you can’t get to from here. One Sunday, away from such roads, I saw in the morning mist a small cathedral cut in the hill’s rock. And, though you may think it just too much wine, I heard a schola choiring Palestrina above a congregation chanting along; either learning or spirit singing in pentecostal polyphony, I couldn’t tell.
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