THIS IS THE PLACE
It breathes, it eats, and, at night, beneath a crawling ground fog with the luster of vaporized pearl, it dreams; dreams while tiny predators stage a nightmare ballet in sharp grass. It is a living thing, it has a soul, it has a face.
AT NIGHT YOU CAN ALMOST SEE IT
At night you can almost imagine what it might look like if the swamp were boiled down to its essence, and distilled into corporeal form; if all the muck, all the forgotten miskrat bones, and all the luscious decay would rise up and wade on twe legs through the swallows; if the swamp had a
spirit and that
spirit walked like a man...