by John Grey
He lived so close to the cypress swamp,
the howls, the screeches, the thrashings, of death
were as common as bird song.
From the deep bass notes of day
to the coffin stillness of night,
the humid air could not quite smother
the inevitable death throes.
Could be the squeal of a mouse
in a cottonmouth’s jaw.
a muskrat grabbed by a bobcat,
or an unwitting anhinga,
drying on a log,
suddenly snapped up by a gator.
he’d sit on the edge of the old abandoned bridge,
drop a line into the water.
The catch was usually plentiful.
The fish didn’t scream
but he was sure they knew the feeling.