Late in September
when the white oaks reach their colorful crescendo,
the musky scent of the Chesapeake-flavored earth rises
and mingles with the freedom of the sky.
Old ghosts awaken, gathering new members into history as they walk
through the breeze towards the retired tobacco barns
sheltering spider webs in place of crops.
Here, the air clings between the past
and future, and the wind talks quietly with the spirits
of field slaves and oystermen
about news from the Eastern Shore and the Inner Harbor,
telling tales of bridges between two worlds to those
still uncertain of which side they’re on.
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