(A creative writing excerpt)
Birds usher in the sun with their tune, dancing on hues of purple, red, and orange. The water is gentle as it kisses the sand. Dew drapes off wisteria and lingers in the air. Overtaken by the smell of honeysuckle calling to me from its hiding spot, I have never been so at peace. Boat motors in the distance are like white noise. Can I stay here? I want to crawl into the kudzu and uncover its truths.
Today the water is clear enough that I can see schools of bass drifting through channels and avoiding fishermen. Pines tower over me with their sharp inviting freshness. Lily pads spring up from depths searching for light. Steadying the kayak, my stomach jumped as I gathered my bearings. Fish dart out of the wake. The sun reveals itself beneath morning haze and claws at my eyes, reminding me to fumble for my sunglasses. My paddle meets the resistance, and a catfish engulfs a spider perched on the surface. Splashes hitting my legs send shivers upwards.
An island lined with stories of duck blinds, now decaying. They talk with items long forgotten, and turtles have made stages of fallen logs. Midday clouds roll in casting shadows and bringing a breeze that blows my boat closer. A crawfish scuttles back in defense as my paddle disturbs it. A murder of crows leaving the cypress tree brings my attention to the fishing lines that have become landmarks, resembling crystal webs. Carolina rigs, rattle traps, rooster tails strung out like art.
Once ashore, sand worms its way into my shoes. Each step builds friction. Trees form a fence, disguising the island’s heart. Underbrush rises, gripping onto dead vines, weaving blankets of ivy and moss. The forest floor is alive with fungus. Mother Nature’s handmade botanical gardens on exhibit. I keep thinking about how lucky I am to experience it. To sit in it, breathing it all in.
My ears travel to the sound of raspy laughter atop the water. A worn face is visible, the old man is casting with one hand and curling a beer with the other. I wave off an audible snort. People are better when they aren’t aware the world is watching.
A salty mop shuffles into view, “You should have soaked that bait in Kool-Aid.”
The boat’s speed quickens with the current and the men make no effort to fight it. Do they act similarly when it comes to their life? Are they drifters?
I pull myself over fallen trees and through thorns. The temp is dropping, following the sun to the west. Its golden warmth fades the forest into darkness. Owls wake and you can hear the howl of coyotes ringing the dinner bell. Music to my ears, as I ascend the island’s peak. The sky is dancing, spinning blues into reds, and purple into yellow. It moves in sync to paint the land in gray and produce the starlit canvas that hosts the moon.
aspilledcupofcoffey 