Wild Rice and Heron

By Jim Tilley​

 

You recognize a swamp when you find yourself in one,

not by the skunk cabbage, the barely moving water,

the trees that have chosen to put down their roots

in this place, not even by the delicate ferns thriving

in the shade on the gently sloping banks rising from

the central creek or stream or brook, whatever it’s called,

 

but the circumstance from which you can’t paddle your

way out, a situation you can’t leave, yet can’t stay in.

You find yourself slogging through muck, even along

marked trails, because someone forgot to build planked

platforms to navigate from one dry patch to the next,

you having to do that yourself day by day. The wetlands

 

are too wet, but not wet enough to float the canoe you

are willing to make to extricate yourself. After all, it’s

a swamp, not a marsh you could abide with its body

of water nearby that’s not murky—river, lake, or pond.

Low-lying flora—pink honeysuckle, yellow flag iris,

reeds and wild rice—and fauna to keep you company,

 

not just those long, thin, black water snakes that bite.

You might spot baffled beavers going about their work

toppling young birches for their house, rows of painted

turtles sunning themselves on logs. Gulls, red-winged

blackbirds, purple martins, and if you’re lucky, a white

crane or great blue heron lurking among the grasses.