At first I think I'm going crazy.
Then I realize the ground really is moving. In fact, it's downright twittering (Here, I use twitter in the old-fashioned sense. Miriam webster defines it as "making successive chirping sounds.")
Near the swampy marshland coast of Georgia, dozens of tiny little crabs scatter as I walk by, scamper back to the water. The sun is setting and I rush past them, trying not to to step on any of the little buggers. When I get a closer look, I notice they have one large protruding claw and one tiny little wimpy arm. Mentally, I label them "Popeye" crabs because of their muscular biceps. Later, I find out they are called "Fiddler Crabs."
I can live with that.
Fiddler Crab Image from: animals.timduru.org
At the risk of being redundant, let's call Georgia forests enchanted. Moss hangs from the trees. Middle (clam and oyster shells, remnants of indigenous folks hundreds of years ago) covers the path. Oak trees clamor desperately to keep from falling into the swampy morose. The sun falls in oranges and reds. Everywhere is quiet but for the twittering of crabs, the scratching of squirrels, the buzzing of insects.
I do feel like I'm going ecstatically crazy in the forest, but a good meal, a shower, and 8 hours of sleep takes care of my drug free euphoria. The long drives and go go go are a form of madness. A really good kind.