The river, the painted rocks, the fish that go barble-barble, you can never catch the grandad catfish, the granddaughter cat is elusive too, they try to dabble but grandad taught her how to outfox the common rabble.
I saw a fat man with gnarled fingers today, they looked like tree bark and his boots were well traveled and a burnt gray. Scarcely do I smile, I feel like a wren flying in the sun, people stare at me, my eyes make them uncomfortable. An old woman passed me by and stopped, turned and blessed me and told me to go ahead, she'll die soon, it was all over her face, it must be hard for her to sleep in sickness and death, to prepare for a thing like that. She will weep for her own mother who she'll see, her son, a boy turned into a man. No tears for her soul, she likely will repent, troubles for all, offer your whole hand and bow, this is the South, this is how it is here, shoulder your grudge and trudge on through the mud.
The birds sing here, and the sky is made of sugar and candy sweets, peace and content, strangers have never seen a creek before, water moccasins and copperheads, a moonpie and kudzu patches and the comfort of sweet tea and porch swings, battalions of fireflies and angry yellowjackets, the little colorful swords that sting, even the bobcat kittens here are mean. Native land, arrowheads and spears of sharp-stone. Old graves and my beauty slow-walking among these mournful people, the old war so far gone, the red clay from acres of blood, no other place as free and torn with such vicious debris, I will die here too, like an angel in the pools of mercury, the infinite and endless trees and fresh air, the happy-sadness and soul full of prayers, the tin shack terraces and gelid mansions, the roaring rapids and a canoe sailing through the pristine breeze, the river, the syrupy river and lifeless bodies of woe, that devouring snake-like mouth and drowsy banks full of fallen logs and drowned sludge, the doleful river, the great river that embraces the sleepy old mud.