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Econlochatchee

Fins ripple the lavender dusk.  There floats

no moccasin, but an empty stick.

A lone gator-

shaped chunk of tree rots on the bank.

Ahead, the brush hides a man, or maybe

it’s just bulges of live oak twisted up

to canopy the path beside baby

daisies and juniper blues, lit by trapped rain.

Was that a tick

dropping from the mossy beards grazing my head?

Bats (or the most massive moths I’ve ever seen!)

whirl, drop and rise in a clumsy dance,

same pattern as the rolling blades around the bend.

Roaring wheels set the tempo

for tinkles, chirps, belches, buzz—

What was that?

                        -Ashley Rae Curran