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