The Bayou

The early morning fog bathes the green slime and trees in a gray hue as birds flutter to and fro and squirrels scurry from their beds, playing a tag game of “You're it.” and an early morning feast among shaking limbs and prying eyes. The Bayou comes awake to meet a new day. Sights and sounds of the early hours impels the spirit of the swamp in a ghostly stillness and merriment. Nature comes alive in small measures of time each in its own place, each well aware but unwavering in its brutality for this is life of pure survival hidden among the Spanish Moss and rotting logs It’s a rehearsal as old as nature itself for the actors are always on stage and the curtain never falls. Its beauty with a haunting presents and writes its own stories penned day and night in the sights and sounds under the sun or moon. A limb breaks under the stress of the tiny weight that finally snaps the rot in its last attempt to win but is lost to the dark water, leaving only tiny bubbles to trace it decent to the bottom. An echo of a far off acorn as it drops in another attempt to win the fight but also loses to the bayou. Drip, drip, drip, the water insist on winning but never the master for nature always comes with more, The Gator with nose and eyes peeking above the black water to find the next unsuspecting meal as does the cotton-mouth and gar. All is at peace until all is lost. An epitaph written in sudden violence then back to silence, waiting for the Hawk and Owl to make an appearance on nature’s stage and battling for the leading role. It accepts the wind and rain as a backdrop to enhance the scene, lending a chance for leaves to ride the breeze and a new story is written. The theater only tolerates man as an outsider to look upon its quiet beauty, accepting but without welcome, giving only a minor role and without applause.