In the Low Country, the world moves in the midst of stillness.

Water rests, still, at the lowest point, but it must flow to that point--down the creeks, along the streams, in and out of the roots of the marsh grass, into the estuary, draining into the black holes of the fiddler crabs.

Then the tide catches it and drags it up, away from its resting place, and it is caught and ruffled by the wind.

This is the wind that brushes across the green-golden heads of the grass blades, bending them slightly. As it breathes across the tidal flats to the forest, live oaks fill their shade with creaks and rustles. The pendulous masses and strings of spanish moss are pushed gently aside, and sunlight dapples the underside of the leaves.

Gulls and vultures hold their wings firm, motionless, and are carried on the air.

Nothing happens. And everything happens.

And that's why I come here.
1:11 PM

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