Storm in the Delta Distance

The longer I live away from the Mississippi Delta, the more I remember its skies.

I’ve seen big skies before. Texas. Oklahoma. Kansas. Wyoming. Arizona. Montana’s nickname is “Big Sky Country”. I’ve seen them all, and they are magnificent. But the land in those states is mostly barren. It’s rocky. Rough. Dusty. The land beneath the large Delta clouds is fertile and lush. It changes color like a seasonal kaleidoscope - green in spring and summer; gold and white in autumn; gray and brown in winter.

As a child I was mesmerized by the night glow of surrounding communities. At the edge of any Delta town you can see the punctuation of light in the dark. The stars are bright, and the electricity from nearby towns can be seen glowing in the distance. Greenwood’s arc was longer than Leland’s. Indianola has more of a spike. Greenville’s street light’s replace the setting sun. Clarksdale seems to stretch the widest. I knew every town by its distinct glow in the Delta heavens. I remember that when I see this photo.

I also remember the joy I felt from knowing what was happening in other parts of the world simply by looking up. I might be standing in a warm pool of sunlight near Merigold, but could clearly see a summer storm ten miles away in Pace. A drive through county roads in the fall always carries with it smoke clouds hundreds of feet high and thousands of yards away. The farmers burn the land of old life so that the soil might embrace new life a few months later. All of this cycle of connection is clearly visible in the heavens.

I don’t know what any of this means beyond my own romanticized memories. I’m sure there is a scientifically objective rationale for my nostalgically subjective recollections. But I do know this - the landscape of my Delta childhood taught me that curiosity is best answered by looking upward and outward and forward. If we do this with attentiveness, answers are there, even if no one else is.