It is early morning as I write this, the sun will rise in two hours. I’m surrounded by rain, lightning and open windows.
There is a strip of terrain between Valdosta and Ray City perfectly shaped to host dark currents of ferocious wind. Yesterday, as I drove into this contour, I saw a convergence of Mississippi Kites swirling on the outer clouds of the storm. I felt like their wings kept the tornadoes away.
I’ve been listening to Steve Young, who passed away a few weeks ago. Seven Bridges Road is such a beautiful song, his 1972 recording is my favorite. The song is about belonging to a place. The lyrics are sparse, but he describes so fully the feeling of being here, of the divine humidity where the spanish moss grows, “There is a taste of time sweet as honey”. Yes, you taste time here, you see time in the color of pollen running through the wings of bees. There are days I can only tell time in flowers. What season is this? Wisteria, lemon blossom, pecan buds, wild azalea. White winter camellias have left.
Such an inadequate vernal word, Spring.