Charlotte Jones
A feral donkey on the levee on the way to the Delta
In most places you’re not supposed to ride the levee. But sometimes you must get from Point A to B, whether Point B is an oxbow lake, a hunting camp, or a state of mind. Even if Point B is anywhere but Point A.
The levee is certainly an anomaly, but also a dichotomy. The impressive feat of human engineering divides us from, while simultaneously bridging us to, the Mississippi wild. To the east, houses, gins, tornado sirens, and soybean fields dot the horizon. Westward, gnarled vines and cypress knees reclaim the edges of waterways. From atop the levee, the intermingle becomes more clear—Angus cattle loiter at the swamp’s edge while whitetail deer graze in the open.
Anytime I am in the Mississippi Delta, I always return to the levee. Most recently, five of us piled into an old Honda to meet with a local known as “Whistle” or “Mr. E.” Despite his old age, Whistle hustled to the top of the levee from a far-off cowshed in a mere thirty seconds, with no qualms about voicing his excitement. This feral donkey has one job; protecting the livestock. But Mr. E is a celebrity now, often blocking the road, demanding treats. After we paid our toll, we headed north on the levee road to chase the sunset, hoping to catch a glimpse of the comet ATLAS.
We met another donkey who was certainly less feral, but more cautious, than the previous levee guardian. His herd followed, then lingered, and stared at us with a certain je ne sais quoi. As the cows blocked the open road, we were the ones left to ruminate on topics such as getting from Point A to B, dichotomies, and Chuck Berry. The metaphor leaned somewhere towards c’est levee.
