John Bliven Morin
Night in the Everglades (part 1 of 2)
It's twilight in the 'glades;
The cry of a lone coot
echoes among the cypress
like a lost soul.
The bellow of a bull 'gator
is answered from some
shadowed islet shore,
a ghost of the Triassic.
Night creeps 'cross the sawgrass,
choking the last vestiges of the day;
a mist envelops land and water
like a cool cloud.
A hoot-owl cries out in the distance,
searching for her mate, for
it's now time to go hunting -
and the mice tremble.
Ripples spread across the surface,
but whether fish or other, the answer
hides beneath dark waters,
All about the air, the 'skeeters
gather in clouds with mites,
swooping and rising, seeking
their sanguinary feast.
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