Bare Feet in Frog Fruit

September rolled in and rolled out on a King Tide.

In between it seemed to creep.

Slow time bookended by rising sea.

I drove east today.

Unplanned and entirely needed.

What used to be near-endless pasture is all neat rows of identical houses now. I couldn’t breathe until I passed it.

Once it hit the rear view mirror – the land opened up to pine flatwood and prairie.

Then it felt like home again.

I stood near the lake and thought of all the times I stood there before. There is a strangeness to returning. When everything else has changed – even you – but the view miraculously appears the same.

I thought of bare feet in frog fruit. Gathering buckets of apple snails. Filling fairy beds with Spanish moss seed. Creek beds and horse trails followed long enough to lead to the slough. Wild, free, and unafraid of gators were we.

“The trails are open. Just a bit muddy goin’ back there”, says a friendly voice. I smile. Mud has never stopped me before.