Dixon Correctional Facility. Long line of prisoners shuffling inside the wire. Not shackled but most wearing bright orange woollen hats. Fifty or so. Not a single Caucasian. Later passed by a minibus marked Prisoner Transportation. It stopped by a Baptist Church, small groups in the parking lot assembled for a funeral. On the shoulder two of the Sheriff’s patrol cars, the officers gathered around one. Chatting.
I’d left Lep and Perry’s home earlier. Breakfasting on fresh fruit and grits – coarsely ground corn. Almost immediately gentle rolling hills replacing flat, featureless plains. Gradients perceptible but not unpleasant. Little, bar the prison, to return my thoughts to the road. Instead mulling over what I might do when I returned home. Just a single truck sitting on my tail for a while. Pressing on the horn. Impatient imbecile. Arrogant. He could wait.
Tags: Franklinton, Jackson
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