I am in North Carolina where the Cherokee Indians originated, where Black Beard haunted the coasts, Irish English settled, Moravians survived, where the slaves were hard pressed working plantations.
Here are deciduous forests primeval, Appalachian Mountains stretch long-lasting in a smoky view for miles, far distances above the piedmont valley.
With the distant mountains one sees the continual green domes rounded by millenniums of climates. In the environment are big granite rocks and deep loam.
Trickling, rushing, falling rivers, lively streams run along verdant banks and over stone rocks. Occasional lakes with streams are plentiful amongst the fertile forest and open fields.
In the valleys: vineyards, tobacco fields, vegetables, and cotton all growing in the red earth turning to neat green rows
Birds and wild animals are abundant richly varied and able to survive in forests, the fields and along waterways.
North Carolina, for me still feels ancient, strange, and foreign yet inviting me, softly helping, teaching, and holding me gently dearly in its historic hands.