Savannah and the Black Warrior

He rises in eerie silence,
an interruption of the great stories of Antebellum,
legends told in slow drawl by old men
and suspected witches.
The black warrior cuts their stride, riding to the sound of pounding drums
as the pale faces watch from either side and take comfit
that some things are always the same
no matter where you are.
This is how I imagine it:
the character of a new place,
the stillness of a river wrapped tightly in southern legend.
My concept of home flirts with that inner core,
threatening to make a love child from my brain.