The gravelly voice of a bluesman crackles over a wireless. Soaked in perspiration, the landowner eases himself into a chair on the porch. It creaks under his weight. Casually, he sips at a jam jar of sweet lemonade and unwinds to the gospel melody of the musician.
He stares off at the summer sun as it dips below the line of oaks smothered in Spanish moss. He won’t sit here long. It is nearly time for supper and it is an indulgence to spend batteries on a day other than the Sabbath.
He runs his hand over the twisted vines that curl up from the chair’s legs to form arms. Allowing himself a quiet smile, he admires the handiwork of the slave that had made it for him. It was a pity that he had to beat him so hard the first time. The slave should never have tried to waste quality timber for this luxury.
As the song ends, he leans forward and switches off the radio. Rising to his feet, he breathes deeply the cooling air of early evening and heads inside. Little does he appreciate that the music he just enjoyed will one day hurtle through space on technology impossible for him to conceive. And while he may be master of this landscape, it is the work of his slave that will endure to bear witness to these advances and not his self-righteous hegemony.
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