Down here time moves more slowly.
Delta: raw body of America, washed up through veins of the beloved Mississippi River.
At dusk the darkness comes alive with sounds of foreign creatures. They each have an attitude mocking the laughing south.
The lullaby of a slow-moving train, the southern draw of front porch folks, the ascension of the lazy sun.
At daybreak the warm, thick air wakes you by striking you clean across the face; exotic smells of earth and clay and water.
Gulf Coast: glass magnolia leaves follow you south and then transform into another vastly different terrain.
Time stops at this edge of the country, where waves and highway isolate the past in the present from the rest of the world.