Light spills like water, slow breath
fills the swamp, hushes the dark.
We move quiet, feet pressing ghosts.
The trees dip low, hold their secrets.
A spotlight cuts clean through silence,
spilling over rippled, glittering dirt.
Eyes float beneath the surface, golden.
We laugh soft—we are thieves tonight.
The frogs wait patient, quiet and still,
like they’ve done this before, years ago.
The water rises in slow, silver notes,
dying on the shoreline, kissing the reeds.
Our palms are heavy with water’s weight,
fingers brushing scales, slipping in time.
The bayou hums a hymn all its own,
and the moon just watches—it always does.