Tail feathers spin, a whirling dervish aerial dance

the Coopers Hawk has ten eleven more

he won’t miss it. It is the wing he needs the most.

Moss, a carpet made for padded feet and the tender cheeks

of children, rhizoids anchored to the undersides of Bald Cypress

and Southern Magnolia, with their flowers white and impressively large,

a nod to the Goddess the world over. More moss, tangled in shadow,

in North facing crevices of stone. The fen is alive

with mating dragonflies, their eyes cut stones, faceted but unaware of a plane

for dew drops precariously perched on folded wings, not long for falling.

As the rain comes down and streams pour into the body of the Gulf, boats set sail

for the teeming nets, and calloused hands hold the line. One

with the Life, One with purpose, the Coast and the bogs and the heartbeats

keep time.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019