Cypress Evening
Cypress ‘knee's’ lap in the light
as dusk wades in.
Evening parachutes down,
it plants shallow pother
around ankle-deep trunks.
Anhinga necks stir shadows
under a low moon.
This is the gurgling gills
of a melting evening.
Florida ends at every lakeshore
where night-fevers begin.
A heated gloom that thickens
where bugs quicken.
We are locked into the chaffing songs
of crickets,
the drilling buzz of mosquitoes,
as cypress roots soak
in the dark dank air.
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