Late summer, midday
A deadly moist heat that comes with Louisiana territory
Sweat forms like morning dew on our upper lip and necks
In a brown, dry wood we follow a trail of unexpected green
What appears to be the remains of a perished stream
Likely put in place by last week’s scattered showers
And then quickly absorbed by an unforgiving Southern sun
But where the last bit of moisture remains
Under a canopy of leaves
A chain of green grass blooms and weaves through the brush
And like a rainbow promising gold or a trail of breadcrumbs
We follow it intently
Equipped with fallen branches turned walking sticks
That soon become boat paddles on either side of us
Side by side, stepping in time with one other
Our oars in sync, punching into the ground before us
And pushing us further along the trail
Floating along this disappearing stream
In our imaginary canoe
I enjoy this childlike moment with you