The Last Time We See Each Other

I didn’t grow up in the bayou, just close enough to know its draw–
of wild things and mossy trees, of shifting land and brackish water.
A world away from the paved suburban streets just down the road.

You passed the bayou on your way to somewhere else.
A blur through the windows of cypress and mosquitoes, 
of shadows and danger, of life and death
and everything in between.

I remember the sound of a place alive.
Crickets, frogs, pelicans– 
humming its own tune.
I wonder if it’s quiet now.
If there’s anything left
to keep you awake at night.

The bayou is something awful–
a place of fear and reverence.
Its power, its purpose,
is stronger than anyone understands.

It holds back the floods,
filters the water we drink,
cradles and protects its species
without asking for anything in return–
except to be left alone to work.

But industries know how to scream.
And drills go ever deeper.
And buildings rise and spread in the blink of an eye.
And we call it progress.

But the land drowns.
The land dries up.
The waters turn black with runoff.
And the animals leave.
If they even survive.

If I ever go back, if there’s anything left,
I want to do things differently.
I want to listen to the bayou.
I want to remember the fear of the water–
because of its awful power,
not because I know

this might be the last time we see each other.

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An Ode

 The bayou went still.
 Not with peace, but with absence–
silence carved by loss.

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