Her eyes were sometime brown sometime green.

For her eyes were made from the waters of the Chattahoochee.

Her eye color would change according to her mood but more importantly her endocrine system was tied to climatic changes like the weather.

 She could be cold as a Georgia winter but just like southeastern seasons her mood would change from a windchill cutting through your clothes cold stare to a melancholy grey spring fall day.

 At night she appeared to be black for the moon would not illuminate her skin, but the next day she could mingle in any Latin American crowd, olive skin hues Mediterranean as oil or pesto.

In summer she was relentless as though the heat would never end welcoming the cold of winter again because her alimentary system hibernated during the cold.

 But her summer attacks were relentless like Georgia mosquitoes drawing blood over and over without remorse.

Macon residents sensed something was wrong but they could not tell the difference between subtle blood loss and the relentless hovering of gnats poking their heads in every open wound.

 They could only hope for winter and the sense of relief which accompanied the cold air.

 She dwelt among the Spanish speaking community but she spoke no romantic language.

 Her accent was not traceable to Portuguese Spanish french or Italian.

 Darker oriental members of Bibb county would try to engage her in conversation during her random daytime visits but their Que pasa only received a spooky response of silence.

She even toured part of the migrant season working with her hands in the fields surrounding highway 75 and interstate 16 gleaning onions and tomatoes to round out her diet.

 She stopped herself before the crops turned to acres and acres of cotton towards Chatham county because there was no sustenance in the white cloud puffs.

 There would be a bouquet of wild flowers waiting for her at the end of her dusk to dawn shifts with the words, Flores para los muertos written in charcoal on recycled paper gathered by her coworkers.

 Flowers for the dead.

 And she never crossed the Florida state line for any particular reason other than her make up was more deciduous than evergreen and the fact that she was not truly tropical.

 The waters of her makeup ran deep like the aquifer from the north Georgia mountains and were not mixed with salt like the outlets into the Atlantic and gulf of Mexico.

 But when there was no harvest in Georgia to pick, she was homeless dwelling in abandoned  buildings visible from 75 near the 16 east exit.

The only contrast to the Macon backdrop of K. Brown’s home was her shockingly light colored hair.