THE BOG

The Bog.

I step into the cattail marsh

And hear the clatter and hush of things rushing off.

It always feels a little bad

That the instinct of all other things is to run from me.

But I guess I do it too.

Inching through the rose thicket at the edge in my bare legs is like walking through fire

But I know there’s cool water out there.

The first few steps are kind of claustrophobic

The water swallowing my calves

The cattails growing tight and straight.

Maybe there’s no room for me here.

But a breeze blows and everything leans and I see there’s space between

So I move in.

I don’t know how to walk quietly here

Through the sucking mud and hummocks.

My noise pushes everything farther away

But for once I don’t want to be alone.

This place is for chatting

With the grackle and the coon

Catching up with the turtle.

So I pick a spot of soft mud and twist my feet down in

A light anchor.

and when the next breeze blows I can let my body sway with the bog

It showers me with golden pollen

And my gold hair blows the same

I know I’m really here when

A dragonfly lands on my shoulder

A snake swims round my knee

A warbler lands so close I can count the wriggling worms in its bill

Three

Four hungry mouths to feed.

What’s not to love about a place where I can bury myself in mud

And come out clean.