Seasons (Savannah)

There is no sincerity in the seasons of this land.

Spring comes in ebbs and waves with no great fervor. It sags against the trees and earth and ocean with no spine or bloodied knuckles that are ready for to burn with no great passion and no love or want or teeth, and in the dark, in the weak summer so unlike the Thick Too Thick to Burn like summer risen in The West who takes no prayers and hears no weeping as she rises o’er the hills and bluffs and rivers in her grasp—though she gives willfully and frankly all the blinding, blessed burning built upon the floods and thickets she’d drug down from draining rivers in The North of The West—she is honest, and she’ll tell you how she feels.

But in The South, and all at once, none in due time, the mulberries and the fleabane with the wisteria and the tickseed and the wrong grasses and too-clear rivers try to overtake the kudzu—slung like hanged men all across the topmost, sidemost branches of the wrong oaks as it wakes to drown them all.

Rivers only run clear after a flood, and only land and rolling sky can bring real storms. This land’s a liar.