Fate sniffs every fallen branch, her nose stuck in the pine needles. She marks the spot, squatting and lifting one leg at the same time.
The silent swamp calls to me.
I follow the sun along a thin stretch of land mounded above the mud and reeds. I lean between the old pine and young beach tree. I am as still as the curling leaves and long rusty pine needles beneath my feet.
Zinnia is chest high in mud chomping on swamp grass as if she were a wild thing. Now she carries the smell of the swamp.
I peer into a healed woodpecker hole in the pine looking for the spider I know lives there.
Free to be who we are, we do what comes most natural to us.