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the stink of the swamp slaps you in the face in the same exact spot
never disappointing, memorizing the land mark where you began to hold your breath
after years you become accustomed, how will you know you are getting close to home
restless frogs after the rain, mating season in the south
resurfacing sounds of nostalgic sweet warm spring sound-front breezes
blue-jays playfully dance in a puddle
looking way pass the caterpillar stricken tobacco fields where the eagles circle
death lingers, something quite necessary in nature
a hologram of my granddaddy on his tractor diffracting from memory, he's waving
all surreal, times are still changing, the corn fields don't look the same to me anymore
and yet, the urge to see them is of a giddy child
flocks of geese overwhelm the atmosphere with the honking echoes of familiarity
a sense of relief as they drown out the on key invisible cicadas all in their own tune
blackbirds orderly swarm to hang out on the power lines
cattle so few grazing the grass appearing smaller in stature
photographic memory scrambles, usually there is a crane by the canal
obviously noticeable there were more and more trees missing
stripping away the land of the deer and black bear
taking for granted cute bunny rabbits territory furthermore, all the tiny forest creatures
goodness, what happened to the woods around the bend
once flourished with pines, oaks, and a giant maple tree that spoke of seasons
the weeping willow on the corner vanished overnight replaced by a garage
look at the doe standing near the edge of the road confused too
