ABSTRACT
In coastal Georgia the rivers rise up to meet the rain almost daily. What of the land, all red and sore? Freshwater rivers, brackish water, and salt snake around islands and mainland, rise up against root-weary banks and trees, ebb and flow. What of the land covered with kudzu and long tired vipers—lazy from the heat? Tree roots break through the dirt; live oaks hold mistletoe and dangle Spanish moss. To get from island to mainland and mainland to island, people travel over drawbridges, waiting for shrimp boats and yachts to go through, waiting for the bridge to drop and form a road to carry them past oleander, with its lethal juice, in the direction of their need.
