Been reading Lewis Nordan’s “Music of the Swamp.” He made me remember all those times in the woods with my old dog, Tanner, and we used to go all the time. It seemed then as i know now as a levee road, holding in the little Tallahassee lake. I tried to build a deer blind in those slight woods, just to watch. Never seen much. Only ever found. Used to go to them woods, like i do now, if it’s not every day it’s pretty well near. All of the excitement of their shade and stories and hope building up to where we practically running to get there. Used to go - and Lord did i cry when they cut some them trees down. Just a few, here and there, no particular apparent rhyme nor reason. Weren’t enough to make a difference, probably. But i cried. Because it meant, eventually, surely - they’d be gone. Couldn’t fathom i’d be long gone before they was.
They didn’t seem to have bramble out there like they do here. And it doesn’t rain anywhere on earth like it does out here in the bayous. Met my first liar out there. Couldnt - cant - understand. All them walks. All them tadpoles and that little alligator before the 4th of July. Out in these woods in the ouroboros we walk and walk and now we feel like friends, maybe, i might be acting too familiar. All of these beautiful things obscured by the next beautiful thing.
Birds sing, crickets sing, frogs sing, we sing. You might find me out there if you’re walking, i’m wondering. Sometimes i catch Wilbur staring and i begin to stare as well. Between the wind and the branches, the birds, frogs, all of these hidden creatures, we are listening so that we might begin to see. You might hear me saying, often, in the squelch of the marsh, “i believe! i believe i’m sinkin down!” and Robert Johnson rolls his eyes again. Never fallen down on my knees and raised up my right hand in this swamp, just at least not yet.
These waters is gentler waters. (this land is your land) and i been dreamin so good out here. Carrying you on my mind as all of these fern-coated oaks green & dream-misted, “holding patterned” waiting for our storm & it still ain’t stormed. Out wondering and staring and listening in these woods, quiet in the morning, birds shaking dew from their feathers as they sing in the trees, the trees showering us in our dawn and at a night a boy and his boat circle and circle, ripples find us in the grass and we sure-nuff sinking down, squelching, searching, one day these vines will be summer snakes and these logs alligators but i wont know til i know.
The promise of fireflies in March. The promise of spring and threat of summer. Alligator tunnels, nutria, fox, raccoon, rabbit tunnels, all around us, turtles waiting for the turtle hour. Snakes for the snake hour. We will see (eventually.) I am here among my southerners and alone all at once. A man and his motel room. An artist and her tree house. A person and their land. Waiting for blessings.
stories stories stories, the whole world stories. i want to hear all of your stories, all of them. i see what i know now - looking and hunting for stories and i got some but the priority is stories- books books books - all of your stories. Make this world more perfect with your stories; amen, hallelujah, praise God, amen.
