The next morning I woke early and went walking. The crack of nearby small arms fire and the occasional thud of small artillery distracted me from the nature and scenery of the state park. Images of death, dead trees, and a raptor kill on the path absorbed my attention and filled my lens. Back at camp the muffled sound that I thought was car tires on freeway bridge expansion gaps resolved into what it actually was; endless and continuous range practice.

We had our water. After breakfast it was time to go. A few people I'd met asked me why we were leaving. I was sure they would not understand.

"We are expected in Savannah." I told them.

Three hours later at Skidaway State Park we found a place to rest beside one of the myriad serpentine streams of the Georgia coast.

Birds dominate the sound-scape, rustling palms undernote.