| In
the Swamp Karen R. Porter |
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Out here in the swamp among the cedars, it's always a little cooler, a little darker and more damp, the green ground squishing with each step. The water seems eager to swallow back the land as if solidity is on loan. The swamp is so black anything could be waiting down there. Anything at all. Out here among the invisible birds calling from nests thick with wispy hangings, shiny insects scamper hiding in the clumps of grass where a water snake seeks what little sun is offered, |
hauling himself from his watery haunt to cease his hunting till he warms. I am out here in the swamp watching, waiting, for the rising bubbles of a snapping turtle surfacing, knowing no blood will be seen because the water is too dark. The kill looks like churning mud, and when it's over all that's left is a handful of gray feathers floating. The snake raises his head to find the moving sun in his constant search for heat. The god of this swamp is saturated, and all his angels have dripping wings. Their songs are the most ancient songs of all --  |
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