Don’t look at me, I didn’t do it. That darn swamp was low water when I got there! Which is odd, considering how much rain we have been having. I stood on the edge of it in my muck boots and watched the dragonflies hover low over the duckweed, flitting back-and-forth. A tiny frog skipped across the water to get away from me as I was lurking in the tall reeds and cattails along the edge of the murky waters, my eyes itching from nature’s fecundity. A red winged blackbird bird swooped low over the swampy water and landed on a small branch near the far edge of the duckweed encrusted wetness as a gentle wind to swayed the grasses abound me. It is easy to imagine in such a moment that I am in some rural locale and not in the middle of the urban sprawl.
I tread slowly through the swamp and surrounding savanna, savoring the blend of grasses liberally sprinkled with blooms of fleabane, red and white clover, spider wort, foxglove and ragwort, and punctuated by black eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, golden mane tickseed, cinquefoil and rattlebox. They are all here to keep the poison ivy company. Makes me itch just to think about it.