Welcome Home

The first thing I did upon arriving home after several days in Atlanta was stroll out my quarter-mile driveway and walk along the main dirt road to soak up some country life. Then I sat down and wrote the following:

Welcome Home

A single ripe blackberry, almost out of reach, is my sweet reward for precariously straddling this ditch that never seems to drain. Bright green baby muscadines dangle overhead, and a black swallowtail butterfly floats about. The neighbor's dogs that normally bark and run out to greet me are not here today. No one is. Only the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet and the lonesome call of the mourning dove break the silence. Like a Saturday afternoon from my childhood, maybe I will find Daddy on the other side of the screened door, in his recliner, watching The Porter Wagoner Show.

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