Mississippi.

Today is one of those "some days". You know. Some days are just poetic.

So. I am walking. It is not hot. It is not cold. It is just right. Muddy Waters is singing to me. Hoochie Coochie Man. In my ears. Fog. There is fog. On my third lap that sun is trying its best to burn it off. I wax nostalgic. Only days ago it was mustard season. Mustard powder in the tree tops. Mustard powder on the cars. The dogs. The birds. Stand still long enough... You get it. Then the rains mix it up and the mustard flows in the street. The showers leave behind inland oceans of tall green velvet. Oh spring. Now comes the sweet season. Every sweet thing under the sun is in bloom. Magnolia. Privet. Honeysuckle. Infinity. Sweet.

It is gone too soon. We will long for these days of sweetness when the mean season is upon us. I want sand in my shoes. Waves in my dreams. This season often wipes our southern slate clean. Again. And again. Then we stand on the shore and throw out our chest. And raise our fist. And wake up and do it again. Build it. Lose it. Curse it. Build it. Lose it... We collectively hold our breath until the dog days are behind us.

And relax and sigh at the first signs of cool and frost. Autumn. Our roads get sprinkled with southern snow as truckloads of it are driven to the gin. Harvest. When truckloads, and trailer loads, and over loads of orange tubers can ben followed for mile upon mile. Gleaners in the field collecting the broken pieces. Football games. Home teams. This land of at least one king. And a multitude of queens.

Cold days. Few and far between. Sweaters instead of coats. Warm hearts. Season of giving among professional givers. That is what we are. That is what we do. We excel at generosity.

Back to the season of yellow mustard.
This State. This state of mind. My mind. My home.