Murder of Crows

The mist rises inches above the water An angel of silence holds back her tears. Cypress knees jerk And the egret slides silently through the mist The swamp is a sacred place. Inches of water hold a danger deeper than the depth of life The primordial mud is deep here My feet sink in deeper I lean against an ancient monolith of a water oak, which is, Standing next to a cypress tree that is older than anything I can fathom The wood ducks whistle deep in the canopy And I wait for their majestic colors to flash in the morning light I am a hunter but I have not come to kill I am here to take what nature gives A turtle surfaces near me to catch a breath of air And then sinks below the brown murky water He hunts for the dead, the vulture of the swamp He is hunted as well; a snack for a gator That may well be circling my feet as well I care not for I am fearless of these creatures I am an intruder and I am not on the menu Carrying a weapon is only a weak means of security For if they truly wanted me they would take me under And introduce me to their world However violent that introduction might be I would never forget to remember that I am a guest here Until then I will stand halfway in and halfway out of their world Mystified by what the swamp as laid at my feet. A flock of ducks circles my position looking for a place to lite With one croak an old crow gives my position away And the flock turns and heads further south I curse the crow and he looks at me sardonically with one eye And cries out --- “If needed I’ll bring a murder of crows to keep you honest, old fool. “