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.