We all got in the car
-the kids and I;
he was in Baltimore to see the baby.
We left Florida after 8,
past painted signs calling out summertime peaches, and
the boys pointed out a beaver dam built up in a swamp outside of Folkston, right there,
right next to the road.
Tufts of cotton caught in roadside grasses blown loose from harvested fields looked like snow.
purple acres of cabbages and then-
the kids favorite-
rows of what looked like tiny trees, a miniature forest, that
turned out to be broccoli.
“Albany is halfway” Erin said.
Pecan plantations, groves of women-
nut trees always look feminine to me, strong
torsos with arms reaching, ballet positions,
fingers extending the line of the wrist,
thighs strong enough to stand steady while bearing down a birth roar.
It’s hilly here.
Pie spice colors: cloves, allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon.
The towns have glitter garland holiday swirls over the streets.
Turned around, wrong turn, right turn into
farmland, green fields framed by wooded windbreaks.
Starling murmurations, pulsing clouds of birds
sweeping against the blueness of this autumn sky.
The border town, southern gothic, hanging moss and
enormous porches. Tree lined avenues with manners, even just passing by.
is not meant for making great time, this trip
was for taking the time that it takes.