Jumping the Rails
Daybreak, no wind, me and Travers on the end of the dock, eyeing the flood tide, rising now to brimming full, only the very tips of spartina canes showing above the water, like the faintest green and golden fuzz upon a mirror of the sky. Little jewel cedar marshland hummocks set here and there, like emeralds in a fine filigree of creeks and rivulets, stretching off toward Savannah and beyond.
This land I love on the new moon. Indians called the moons as they would, the Geese-Going Moon, or the Green Corn Moon, dependent on the run of the seasons. Here in the South Carolina Lowcountry, we do the same. As fall arrives, so
