Walked down to the river around three a.m, the quiet roar of the surf breaking on the beach just over the dunes. To the east, i can hear the sea buoy outside the inlet, its foghorn echoing the familiar lonesome moan across the water that i have known since childhood, as regular as the ticking of a clock. The forlorn cry of a whippoorwill reminds me that no one is awake but me and my horse; a dark silhouette that snickers at my approaching footsteps and lowers its head to continue grazing. There is no moon, but the glow of a million stars lights the old worn path that my father and grandfather walked for generations. I imagine them walking beside me now, wishing i could shake hands with their ghosts and talk of the times and tides with them. I can see my greatgrandfather herding a stray hog back into the peanut field, mending the split rail fence behind him as he curses the hour and the obstinate nature of the beast. I can picture in my mind the indians who lived here a hundred years before him, roasting their oysters over a fire just as we still do today, hunting deer with bows and arrows and growing their corn and tobacco in the remote meadows of high ground among the swamps. I long for the days of my youth when no houses were in sight of ours; when we walked a mile through the woods to our nearest neighbor along the two deep sandy ruts that granddad told me was a horse and buggy road when he was a boy.
Kenny Gray
I call out loud for their spirits to come walk with me, but the hollow sound of the foghorn mocks my voice. I wonder why i am still here, toiling this land as they did, a slave to this little piece of earth bound by fetters and chains i willingly forged with my own hands. I am planning my escape, but just as a prisoner relies on his cunning and the complacence of the guards, i must bide my time until others afford me the opportunity to barter away my heritage, my home, my very soul. Then maybe i can reincarnate in another time, another place, another life.
Kenny Gray
March 30, 2012
Holden Beach NC
