Sitting on the screened terrace in a gentle rocker at sunset watching the gilding grass turn to disappearing brass to purple at sundown
Dusk leaves the island in mist and Spanish moss hangs from large limbed oaks horizontal over the road leading from Myrtle Island to Savannah beside the still surface of the sea as shrimp and snow crab feed souls lost in the rush for land and money
Whiskey stands on the counter waiting ice falling into an empty cocktail glass eager to ease an aching heart at twilight on the marsh after another day of golf-- on greens and fairways manicured by latinos and blacks riding mowers down and around man made courses carved out of pines and palmettos magnolias and maple
meanwhile in the clubhouse over seven n seven and single malts wealthy men watch declining stock quotations run silently as subtext to political deadlock-- quietly loathing Gore's struggle against the rising tide of the ruthless right storming the election hall chanting "stop the vote!" in a state where gators are kinder or at least more honest
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