The marsh air wades through
the back of our throats
and the wake of our image slips 
away beneath the brackish cove.

A diamondback turtle broods
off the stern of an abandoned sneak-box.

Insects aboard the cedar stain 
work like water elves, mining veins
of algae trapped in the spell of the flat.

A dragonfly is poised on the tip of a reed
and coffee-bean snails follow the shape
of the moon up the stems of cordgrass.

Here, the water’s voice is gagged
and the sky is sent away.

Air bubbles scuttle to the surface
like a necklace of glass beads
dropped out of the chest
of an eroding wreck.

The oars of the tide lock. We row away.

© 2008 by George Bishop. All rights reserved.