Spanish moss curtains drape over branches of old oak trees and bald cypress knees peek out of the silt by the bayou.
Palm fronds frolic beneath the canopy as cicadas warn of darker days when the flood threatened to whisk them away.
This is where I come to preen my feathers, to pull the ticks from my flesh, while the coyotes' playful yelps lull me to sleep.
This is where I fledged. This is where I'll expire. Maybe this is my home after all, nestled in a bend of the Brazos.
Sera's Poetry 