The Louisiana swampland is alive with color, movement, yesteryear and intrigue where white gray moss tickles your brow, hanging from trees begging to be climbed, loose barked limbs sipping languid water below, hiding their cypress trunks holding centuries of rings as their kinsman’s hollowed out logs ferried men the likes of Jean Lafitte, the privateer, through the sometimes murky oft clear water rife with hundreds of species of fish, turtles, crustaceans, serpents and gators, like the eight footer who just thumped my carved out one man pirogue as I paddled under low hanging vines, the sound breaking the musical chirping of birds, myriads of insects and the soft splash of a sacalait striking a mosquito hawk near the marshy shore where amongst the cypress knees were tracks of deer, raccoon, possum and skunk leading to a bayou bend drifting round, wandering, navigating under scrub oak, sweetgum, and hackberry, occasionally disturbing a blue heron or white crane gliding effortlessly through the speckled, filtered sunlight to another perch, along with dozens of fox squirrels chattering as they leapt from limb to branch following me along a little known water trail leading to my destination, a willow bough and palmetto shelter blending into the surround where I was greeted by my adopted friend a red fox licking my hand, sniffing my sack of provisions, wondering what was for supper, a meal I soon prepared over an open fire of blue crab, snake berries and cattails, ever mindful that federal agents may at any moment locate and arrest me for the brutal beating of a politician developer who was drafting legislation to drain and develop four hundred square miles of this precious swamp.


Augustus / Houston, Texas / July 2017