The eagle wheeling at the boardwalk's wooded end
has left those hunting grounds long before we've traversed
the stilted privilege of that weathered decking,
above dark green rushes, virid moss and rusting
autumnal weeds, who've made a home this hemisphere.
Low sun, through cloud-blinds, gilds the dilapidation
(indigenous / invasive flora equally),
dreams in shallow trenches of the rotting handrail;
though the breeze sways its own, preferring wild grasses,
gracile-resilient, softest-breath-expressive.
By Flooded Creek lush grass banks hide frogs their color
and the sky delights to lie in still water under
leaning trunks, to ambush the eye with reflections,
ignite within a dim, amphibian yearning,
to melt, meld marshy with cloudlight and dark water.
