The swamp has eyes; is overfilled with diamonds.
Insect, amphibian, reptile optics- set hazy, humid, thick, repeating nights to shimmer.
1 square foot of space should keep you unsurprised to see firefly flash, raccoon skitter, slug slime trailing on. To see moth bodies hostage to dusty milk-glass sconces, & hornet mounds too close for comfort, populating every place hands may need to touch; to see the last second of a frog jumping- webbed toes swallowed by blackness.
The sounds in this marshland are in concert.
Unsuspecting, shy operatic beginning of a solo winged one- slow; increasing. Other contributors together building. Swelling to crescendo. Carrying on and on. Cracking through the night, sounds bumping across crawfish towers, sliding around kudzu vine & wild ornamental privet
until inky silence comes a creeping, cutting one off at the ear with a sudden stopper- plunging into the lull til’ it’s just a couple of humans breathing easy, sleeping birds, gently swaying whisky, weary nutria, sweet tea, awake snakes, sweating ice-cubes, and nearly still water below.
And then another wave, and another, and another- of boisterous, irrepressible bugs.
To know the swamp is to do so by being here, only.
No stories stand to tell better than experience. Tale tellers, find some Spanish moss and take some rest.
It’s an entire entity, a grouping, a package deal unlike any other, surmise-able as a whole, but breakdown-able with all sorts of moving, squirming pieces. Requiring gentle attention and a tendency toward pacific neutrality.
The land can be surrounded by skimmer boats; a wayward dock rotting and a float, propped by repurposed plastics; neighborhood children venturing bravely into muddy rivers with fingers crossed; strangers becoming friends faster, on average, and often with the assist of sugary spirits in single-use forever-cups; someone, or 2, or 4, or 5- being responsible for the greasy, alluring smells of deep-fried daily-catch.
All these senses- alight. Brightly so. Incandescent due to sun-packed days, bringing hot, stocky air. Incandescent due to outsiders so quickly being welcomed in; enveloped and full-bellied. Incandescent due to the nowhere-else-like-it factor. Crowded with accompanying oohs’ and ahhs’.
The swamp has eyes and they’re overflowing with diamonds.
Some spilling right across the ground. Some dangling around in branches. Some peering placidly from the damp beyond. You can count these lucky land-stars, as they twinkle all around you. You can make them yours just by thinking it so.
Because, hello tortoise, you’re moving like molasses here anyway- so it’s best advised to gather momentary gems and learn the local slither, fill your diamond shaped holes and watch the night shine, let the breeze take its subtle toll, and observe .
Pigeon Heart Ponderings 