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A morning's walk from lake to swamp to see the quiet muck and living stuff, all sweet with birds a-chirping, frogs a-clucking and dragonflies, mating in mid-air, minding their own business (under the circumstances).
Fluttering breezes beat your ears. An envelope of perfume, thick as molasses and green all 'round, rushes up your nose to meet your soul.
Swamp water invites a look and a feel, but only the mice know where the wood stops and mud-crusted feet begin, so the distance remains measured in desire and commmon sense.
Trails run through, their directions changed by quiet men on horseback and rig, confusing the peace; they dragged out trees as homes and fences, and alms to themselves, a hundred years ago. But the peace won here, and lives on, on the trail and beside it, weedy thin and lovely; dainty women in flowery hats tip "Good morning!" in the breeze.
Insect sentries attack at every gate; buzzed by the fly with the big eye, his brave war circle measured and defensive. He knows where your eyes are. A gang of gnats threaten your face. If only they could tell us what they're thinking. Occasionally, a tiny, winged thing gets stuck in your back teeth and is lost there.
A bee sails from hidden places, but honey is his only purpose. Still, he gets that side of the trail to himself.
If you're looking for someone to talk with, try a chipmunk, though the conversation will probably be one-sided; he'll usually have nothing of a friendly chat with the likes of you. On the other hand, he might. Some do. Or try a squirrel, who informs you with nervous chirps and tail-twitches that you are trespassing. And if you care to notice: Possessing the dignity of speech in death, fallen trees tell softly the stories of all the others laying there, through all times, for s/he who cares to listen.
copyright © 2000 Cliff Morris
