If the most the bottomlands offers
is a monologue of wet loam, possumhaw,
and sweetgum trees, then the eye closes.
          The mosquito suckles
and the lid swells. This is the secret offering,
the cottonmouth slipping like ripe fruit
from the black tupelo into the oxbow lake.
Mystery floating as the snapping turtle
with only its smooth carapace exposed,
     the hard shell the occultation
and the art.
          In dreams I wade
into alluvial richness, rank and raw,
while a yellow throated warbler
sings see-wee,
          see-wee,
from Spanish moss. Prophecy
clinging to strangers and to ghosts—
the brackish waters sustaining you
by closing in.