Strange fruit ripens on stranger trees, bright-colored, wrong-colored, the same and yet different. This is not the swamp he knows; these are not the paths he walked as a foal. He is far from home, alone among clutching roots and clinging vines, and he is frightened, fearing that he will never find his way home.
But what is home? Where is home? It is the swamp, the mother, the father, the sister, the brother, the way of life, and the swamp is in his blood and in the rhythm of his voice. He is home; he will never be lost, wherever he might wander in this Strange Land.
