The hour of the painted shore , wind lashed olive waters
, brother to earth , wind and rain .. What songbird call shall answer the question of the March breeze , which spring buck shall amuse the meandering broom sage .. How the fearful turtle skims just below the sight of my wandering eye . The graceful sigh of Loblolly Pines , red tipped lake lovers , for what has day brought the coming night .. Red Shouldered hawk , the hillsides exquisite ****** crying with intricate dance , wary to every changing movement above nutmeg hued trunks that long for their crowning expectations .. The Suns command , showered in benevolent virtues akin to red , blue and gold passageways , lead brightly westbound for the river as churned lake spaces settle into placid afternoon ..
Ghost of the piedmont forest walk these woodland byways , the breath of the Creek Nation give life to such sacred parcels of heaven ..