Where Spanish moss hangs long, time slows. Pendulant branches and their epiphytes comb it from the wind, detain it. Afternoons take nearly forever. Entangled sun marks each slow swirl in the pool of moveless hours. A crow in the oak calls, asking where the corn, which is gone, has gone, his mind caught in the eddy, repeating, repeating. Only the hurrying saw in the mill, running loaded or free, is unenchanted, exempt.