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Poetry is an atavistic force thrust against modern ignorance.


    He inhabits the shadows of his biographers,
   those moss-bearded statesmen, the ancient bald cypresses,
   but don't mistake his patience for a virtue.
   Survival befits a creature committed to stillness,
   whose creed is feeding, when opportunity knocks,
   on what's hard to swallow and tougher to digest.
   He skulks in the bulrush to bum-rush a muskrat or house pet.
   Aching to mate, the guttural love-bellow lowers
   to frequencies beneath our ears' detection
   and makes the surface dance upon his back.
   His camouflage feigns the sleep of a buoyant log.
   An unsuspecting heron ransacks the shallows.
   Cicada sirens waver the afternoon light. Those are
   purls that were his eyes the lukewarm swamp water's
   silver-gelatin mirror must have lately subsumed.
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Author:Westbrook, J.S.
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
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