Southern Sun

A brief walk across the back of campus, through open fields, smells like slowly burning grass. The sun is starting to diffuse its light into the growing haze, as it descends from its apex in the afternoon sky. That deep, smoky green smell remind me of late childhood, spent running around with friends and classmates in the flat expanses of grass behind that Savannah school. The grasses here and there would not survive the scorching sun without human help, like water and fertilizer. I realize that this means the grass does not belong here. Grasses are for rolling plains, far to the West, but not for here. Here in the Heart of Georgia, I tread upon the graves of trees long since cut down, forest cleared, arboreal giants forgotten by the white man, if he ever knew them. His tribal ancestors might be shocked to know how he took the largest monoliths around and turned them into forts, houses, ships, capital — yet, I’m not concerned with that, today. Today all I can worry about is

What Will Happen….

What will happen if it doesn’t rain?




All works, words and art contained on this blog are the sole creation and intellectual property of Nicholas Biddle unless otherwise indicated. They may not be reproduced or used in any way without proper credit and consent. Thanks for reading and enjoying!


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