SWAMP SONG Believe it or not, it gets cold at night even in the solstice of summer off a country road not far from here. Often, the darkness is loud in the fleeting hours of human quiet. And if you listen closely, the swamp comes to life and sings. The air is always saturated blanketing boggy beings in dewdrops. It feels like rest, relief from the scorch of day. Sometimes, the grand oaks can be mistaken for monsters skeletal limbs swaying in the soft light of the moon. But really, they are just dancers in the wind, performing Mother Earth’s exhaling swing. In her twirling arms, countless creatures lie to rest. In the grass, celadon toads frolic filling the midnight air with song, and a red bump itches on my skin from the mosquito’s evening kiss. Even this, in a way, reminds me I am a child of the swamp, too. The finest part of all lies above: the great mural on the ceiling. Painted with little bears and Pegasus and flying wishes free to catch. As I rock on the edge of a quiet dock, 26
I feel small. Then finally, never failing, the great star still rises. The voices of the night rest as the chirps of morning take over. The marsh is alive. Tiny paws search for breakfast among dew-dropped Earth. On exceptional days, I’ve heard, the playful otter even splashes. A beacon of play alongside the sulking gators drifting back to rest. I haven’t seen that yet. And with each breath, the indigo of night is painted orange yellow pink then blue. I am drawn back again and again and again to the crystal waters that welcome me home each summer no matter how much I have grown. In this place of nothing and everything I am found. ABBY JONES