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Mary F. C. Pratt
The birds have gone.
No golden-slippered egret,
no blue-eyed cormorant,
no wading stork shielding
dark water with her wings.
Silence is absolute.
Mangroves
are weary, dusty.
In the fetid pools,
mosquitoes awaken.
Already the air
is thick with heat.
Alligator spoor—
dinosaur track,
tail-drag—
marks the muddy flats
I didn’t much want to go,
not caring for adventure,
what to expect,
imagining
alligator attack,
drowning in deep water,
some vicious consciousness,
so far away from home.
The long train ride,
whistles in my sleep,
tug away from every thing I knew.
TEN THOUSAND ISLANDS
Because it’s tidal,
easy out toward the islands:
piles of shells in the shallows.
Mangrove roots red and tangled