At dusk in Savannah the summer sky gives way to rich colors. Like a painter mixing his watercolors, the vibrant blue of the afternoon sky folds into the reds of the horizon’s setting sun. It is almost purple in Forsyth Park. The air hangs heavy on willowing branches. Spanish moss drops down low from weathered tree limbs, making the old oaks look exotic—then again, this is a storybook place…so that might just be my imagination. As I walk, the dampness of a looming thunderstorm wraps my body in a sweet summer heat. The humidity pulls my clothes tight against my skin and I feel the heat’s embrace. In the bushes the song of the cicadas rises and falls, rises and falls, rises and falls. Steady rhythm. Then, along the street, the gas lamps flicker on. Dull orange flames dance in the glass bulbs against the fading sun. And it’s evening in Savannah.

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