DOWN BY THE RIVER....where the burning fields turn the sky an angry red; a hush goes through the valley.
Thunder fills the void.
A rusty jug of shine rolls down the kudzu bank and rests next to a pair of feet covered in dirt and blood. These feet have known every inch of this land. For years they have carried a humble plowboy with a heart too broken to mend. Now they carry a skinny boy holding a rifle too big for his hands. He hollers to his Margaret Ann and empties the jug in an old familliar fashion. It tastes like earth and mud drowned in a sea of sin. And this feels like home to him. The boy turns to spy his Margaret running jackknife drunk with laughter. This is home. This is pure 57 Carolina poor and pure. And this is the truth. The fields may whisper it... but the blood will never tell. |
