i am the last feather lost to the marsh.

i sway to the song of wind in high grasses,

the only one left to hear its muted dirge.

why should i remember

what is destined to be forgotten —

how in late morning

     when the air began to feel sticky

     his tomahawk stood stalwart and searching,

how her transparent eyes

     took in the whole of him,

how they synchronized 

     their every gesture,

how for that brief encounter they forgot

     snakes waiting ashore     

     no place to safely lay their eggs,

how still they danced, and she bowed 

     her neck in his,     one final embrace 

     before an eternal goodbye.

 the muddy boots both destroy and despair.

their cautionary tales replace 

once joyous sightings.     though none

 will be spared or be left to count.

 when the rains fall and the banks swell,

  i will float away    gone forever.