Easter Morning

Easter morning in South Carolina is cold and rainy.  My husband and I head for a favorite walk.  We drive down quiet streets and country roads, out of our small city and through a much smaller town, and through the gates of a Revolutionary War battlefield site not far away.

We love to walk on the Green River Road, a segment of a 250-year-old roadway much traveled in the late 1700s.  The road (or the two-mile section that’s preserved as part of the battlefield) is about as wide as a driveway, with hard-packed dirt underfoot.  It crosses big open meadows dotted with old trees.  Today, in the cold and rain, we saw one man and his dog in an hour of walking.  Other living creatures:  one squirrel, one crow, one big bird we think was a wild turkey.  It sauntered into the underbrush before we got a chance to identify it.

Gray sky, still-bare gray-brown trees, tiny gray cabin where a family of six or seven Scruggses lived in the 1780s.  In the woods, the occasional bright fuchsia spike of a redbud in bloom or the graceful candelabra branches of a dogwood, lifting greeny-white blossoms.

The world is waiting.

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