A black river teases the edges of this town. It winds just close enough to sniff at its sand heaped fields and seared long leaf pines, and that river chooses to move on to some other place…
Mossy hitched up his workpants and sat on a flat root of the live oak that grew right up from the river’s edge. He loved this tree. Even named it. “Joleen,” just like the country song…
