by Patricia Bostian

A pelican rests on a dock piling
contemplating a plaster companion.
Fiddler crabs shoot back into their holes
as we lower the kayak into the sound.
Water puddles over my shoes,
sun heavy on burnt shoulders;
oars awkward in my hands,
more splashing than forward motion.
Once the rhythm begins,
rowing is a like a rhyme,
lines scored into the water
crossed by the slicing of your oars,
the not so gentle rocking
in the wake of a passing boat.

A patch of white in the chartreuse marsh grass
becomes an egret picking at oyster shells.
We move towards one of the sandbars,
the island covered with grass and shells;
insects rising in the damp heat converging on us,
the egret lifting above the water,
a smudge against a hazy sky.

The tide is low and the kayak scrapes the sandbar,
wedges in tight, and fear moves along my spine-
there are no alligators, the water is not deep,
yet the stillness, the thick green grass,
the sharp shells and sucking mud seem
ancient, waking primitive fears of swamp
creatures and crawling, biting things.
We struggle to loosen ourselves,
avoiding the stinking mud, eventually
climbing out to push the kayak,
shells slicing through our shoes
now coated in slime, mud slicking our arms.

Back in deeper water, the sick fear
hovers like the smell of sea water,
that decaying crab smell along ocean
boardwalks. Returning to the car, I dig
an old sweater out of the trunk.
I am cold the rest of the day.