I paddled

the canoe, the old wooden Indian one, up to the marshy, reedy bank and stepped out into the briny brown knee deep water and pulled it up landed it and kicked wet shoes off and tossed them in. I swatted humid muggy bugs from my face and lifted my shirt over my head and tossed it after my shoes. I slapped the sweat in the hollow of my chest just to hear it splat. I slipped barefooted down into the primordial lilly pad covered soup and sludged and trudged my way along the muddy bottom. Long gar sucked at my legs and an Anhinga swam by underwater, you ever see a bird underwater with it's beak pointed to spear fish? Gliding like it was flying, that's what birds do. The Anhinga has no oil on its wings so it has to dry out before it can fly, after it deep dives and spears lunch. They sit on the bank and spread wings and wait...patiently, and hope the predators don't beat dry. At soups edge are herons blue and egrets white, still like time isn't, waiting, watching, also to spear. Bugs buzz and brackish water laps, barely. Sloshing along, silty muddy foothold. Ancient, primal, river of grass. A gators eyes at water level, a moccassin slithers by. White flowers floating, green, god the green. Salty smell of iron and rusted water. Toes squished, standing, timeless, here. Turtle nose open, mangroves, little blue heron, wet air silence, bliss. Cypress trees five feet tall a hundred years old and all life surrounding a water hole, all life. Gator tail swishing, swooshing, to make the hole. bringing them in, all of them, so he can eat and everyone eats or is eaten. Hole of life and death. Swish and swoosh it and they will come.

Everglades. River of Grass.

You've been, you know. You haven't, you oughta go. Muggy buggy humid fugging place.