Standing on the back of the Apalachee River 
watching crows take to the sky, 
it is possible to imagine 
having wings. It is possible 
to see the marsh 
as a shawl wrapped 
around a waist waiting 
adornment. The moss, 
its uncombed hair, 
never in need of styling, 
brushes against the Delta's 
fulsome brow.

Standing on the shore of Chuckfee Bay, 
it is possible to forget 
calibrations, calculations,
clocks, and watches, 
computers, cell phones, 
any sort of chronometer, 
but yet know continuance 
and think of how the heart 
keeps its own steady, purposeful beat.

Standing on the bank of Bayou Tallapoosa, 
it is possible to believe 
how the sound of wind 
in cypress crowns 
are prevailing psalms,
are chanted celebrations 
of a sheened and sheening earth 
singing supplejack and muscadine, 
willow and wisteria, 
ibis and sparrow, 
singing salamander and bass, 
eagle and otter, 
and of human kind, 
planted beside rivers 
where all who join in communion 
give thanks, 
give thanks.