Kudzu climbs, it moves, it waves with flat, green mittened hands. It stitches together a viney quilt over Georgia with accents of spires of flowers, either purple or white. I like the white buds, as they fall atop of the South in a way that almost sparkles, but not exactly like snow.

For most of the year in the South, where I’m not from, the sun perches so high, the landscape becomes parched, so bright it becomes hard to look at, so hot it drives people indoors. On this autumn visit, the sun lands on a lower branch above Georgia, exhausted from all that summertime work, all that wasted energy. Now, golden light makes long shadows, creating contrast. Now, it’s hard to ignore the variegated greens against the red clay. Now, the temporary and occasional visitor that I am finds delight.

Essayist Julianne Hill ponders the power of foreigners.

Publication: Chicago Quarterly Review

Date: May 18, 2013