The swamp claws its way through the mud. Water moccasin waking late in the winter’s artful sun. Hiding in the putrid belly of the forsaken shade of the brown-haired trees, he lay gazing. He sees in black and white. Stalking prey with a proud skinny neck and blockish head, he hunts. Choctaw child, feet raw from walking, they sink in the shallow brackish water of the Bayou. The underbelly of the swamp is thick and buries her boney ankle as her soul hollers a fearful song. Pulling her shrimp and fishnet close, like a babe to breast, she seals the smell of her succulent catch. Vegetation swallowing half-eaten creatures torn by gators, which display the leftover putrefying flesh like trophies under logs.
Please go into MasticadoresIndia ( now called ChewersMasticadores ) to read the remaining prose and to read the short historical part of the Civil War that inspired this post.