You Don't Have To Drag Me Down
I Descend

Fall shouldn't be green. Fall should be muddy maize and ashen golds, blazing red and burnt orange, brisk blue and deep plums. Although it has inflamed the North, Fall has yet to descend upon the South.

Driving down the county highway upon which I grew up, a strong sense of comfort pulsated through my veins. Here multi-colored trees line the road with just enough space for you to see the fields of amber acreage roll ever-so-slightly into the horizon. The maize landscape looks deceptively dry; dry enough to burst into flame. Looking deeper down at the damp earth will tell you the only fire fit for these fields flame in the hues of the surrounding foliage.

Here, foot prints and paw prints of runners and their companions sink into the after-rain, muddy bike trail. Here, telephone wires exist as the only signpost of modern civilization. Yes, here run horses, hear cows low. Hear the rustle of the drying leaves and remnant, post-harvest corn stalks.

Here you can take a moment out of the hustle and bustle to hear the pulse of the earth, the milling of the wild, the very breath of Eden.