The red clay of the Appalachian slope does not remember the names of the men who clawed at its belly, but it remembers the weight of their hunger; it is a soil that has swallowed the black dust of the mines and the white bones of the dispossessed, yet now it is asked to host a new kind of ghost, a foreign specter born of the veldt and the kopje.















Decades after his most potent works were written, the words of Gil Scott-Heron feel less like historical artifacts and more like dispatches from a future he had already foreseen. The “Winter in America” he sang about in 1974—a season of political disillusionment, racial tension, and national malaise—has returned with a vengeance, manifesting in the polarized and profoundly disquieting landscape of the present day. To read his poetry and listen to his music in 2025 is to confront a sobering reality: the struggles he chronicled have not been overcome, but rather have morphed and intensified, finding a chilling new echo in the political climate of the second Trump presidency. 

