In the Everglades, you don’t have to be the fastest,
just not the slowest. Beware of big mouths with
small minds. Python hunters make bank. Anhingas
nest over gator holes to keep raccoons away. All
they pay is runts. When gator flags wave, move.
Look out. Cypress roots knee air. To see like a
dragonfly, swell your eyes to 3-foot spheres with
30,000 facets. To fly like one, helicopter in all
directions but don’t let a pig frog eat you. Want to
stay young? Float on the one river of sawgrass
flowing slowly to the sea. Hold this plucked blade.
Is your tongue dry? Chew the stem for moisture.
Are you hungry? Smell the sweet-scented lilies
springing from mirrored sky. Listen. Your heart is
73% water. We can poison the water. We can heal
the water. When the living river rises, herons come,
and egrets, ibises, purple gallinules, garfish, oscars,
coco plums, orchids, softshell turtles, vastness,
vultures, children.
—
Elizabeth Kuelbs writes at the edge of a Los Angeles canyon. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Scientific American, Lily Poetry Review, Rust & Moth, Bear Review, Literary Mama, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and her chapbooks include Little Victory and How to Clean Your Eyes.
