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