A bog, a marsh, a swamp, a fen
All of them make me smile.
They are, regardless of size,
Not for us.
Their owners slither and creep
Or hop or cruise with spiny fin
And watch us with beady eyes
They warm my heart.
But some can’t stand their insolence
And so they plot to drain the swamp
and leave those creatures high and dry.
A pile of dust and rot.
All a matter of use they say
No one wants a smelly swamp
A fetid morass of bugs and snakes
Better a field of well-groomed grass.
Sucking mucky bogs and marshes
Such a dismal waste of land
Drain it, burn it, plow it, plant it
in something like ethanol corn.
Who needs the rat-a-tat-tat
Of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker
The guttural roar of bullfrogs
Or the slithery silence of snakes
Driving by in our ethanol powered
Automotive symbols of success
Windows up in creature comfort
Most will never miss the swamp.
But a few, with Huck Finn childhoods
Spent afloat in sloughs and swamps
Will remember and quietly mourn
Their pirogue days