Marsh

The wet heaviness of 

silt and slick 

hug the soles of my feet. 

Legs sunken 

in taupe and algal-green

water. 

I hear what sounds like 

the soft hand of a mother 

soothing her baby. 

Pat-pat,

as the water

kisses the knees

of the bent reeds.

Water striders 

tiptoe across the 

greige opaque mirror.

Small vortices

propelling them forward— 

like a timid christ.

I have a sneaking suspicion 

I am being watched. 

A careless shift

would frighten the 

birds ’ feathered whips,

sending them flying to

their next illusory 

Safe house.

someone else will have 

the responsibility of 

silence.

The mummichogs and silversides

are lazy. 

Hiding in their hollowed homes, 

wading in fear or anticipation 

or sleep. 

The dense woven roots 

swaddle the fish 

through every season.

And every evening,

when the brackish waters

encroach on the banks, 

the reeds

    are swallowed 

     up to their waists.

They do not fight back.

They let the tepid water

 cradle them.