Wetland -

He helped the boy out. “Go home. Tell your dad you fell in a ditch.”

The frogs began their evening chorus, a wild, unstoppable noise. And in the dark, listening to the water breathe, Elias smiled. The swamp was still a guest. But it was a guest who had locked the door.

A boy, no older than twelve, was floundering waist-deep in a hidden slough, his city sneakers filling with black water. His face was a mask of panic. wetland

“I got lost,” the boy whispered. “My dad said it was just a ditch. He said it was nothing.”

When the last ribbon lay crumpled in the mud, Elias sat on the root of the old cypress. The sun set, staining the water the color of old blood and honey. The heron lifted from the willow, its vast wings barely disturbing the heavy air. He helped the boy out

“Hold on,” Elias grunted, swinging the punt around. He reached down, hauling the boy over the gunwale. The child shivered, reeds clinging to his wet jeans.

He poled deeper, past the willow where the blue heron stood like a sentinel of bone and mist. He remembered his father’s hand on his shoulder, pointing to that same heron. “Watch, boy. A wetland provides. But only if you take the shape of a guest, not a king.” And in the dark, listening to the water

The old punt drifted sideways, its bow nudging the tangled roots of a cypress knee. Elias, knuckles white on the pole, pushed again. The mud made a wet, sucking sound, reluctant to let go. For fifty years, the swamp had been his map and his mirror. Now, the map was fading.