WATER

A pale ray bleeds across the swamp. Slick ivy coils tangled tight, choking voices into damp grass hissing...love? —drowned before heard— They say Mother Nature provides but she doesn’t shield— we live for ourselves, as the swamp feasts on our marrow. She taught us: you either hide from or become the man-eating ripples. You have to get your shoes dirty to not be swallowed. “The water,” my mother warned, “takes the ones you love. But remember: love could never outweigh survival.”