Credit Island
Pedaling through pockets
of cool,
sounds
fluctuate
as the
thunk of gears
catches.
Cicadas
thrum down a backbeat
to throaty
bird calls
so sweet a
cacophony
I coast to
listen.
Under a
cocoon of green,
I am lost.
Thin spires
of scratchy black and gray
strain
upward,
their fight
for space
reflected
on dank water
dappled in
mystery
of bayou
and incest.
Matted
undergrowth emerges
as the
water pulls itself back
The musk of
rot,
a fecund
perfume,
sends
runners
twining
through my hair
like
fingers
of the dead--
the cloying
scent
dispersed
as I run
the gears
into
summery hay
light on
displaced air.
—Katherine
M. Searle
22 July 2010
Photos by
Searle
