It is early morning as I write this, the sun will rise in two hours. I’m surrounded by rain, lightning and open windows.
The land between Valdosta and Ray City is 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.