Slogging
My gloves are on.
M boots are tied.
My big hat pulled low.
I wade into the sludge,
gripping the handle
tightly. Prepared
for the ripple,
the first sign of trouble
in the water.
I see it.
A tremor on the chin
of the bank.
A single drop
of the pond.
I watch the face;
the quivering, trembling face
of the bog.
Thick bubbles grow and burst.
A deep schluck, and another, and more.
I see a small crest
in the slime.
It lurches toward me.
I brace myself,
and my wordnet.
Two eyes meet mine,
the beast's.
I stand my ground.
She starts to redescend
into wet safety.
I slap the surface of the swamp,
refusing to be ignored.
The eyes reappear,
their surface glossed by gleams of malice,
or, wait, a tear.
A moment of calm,
a moment to breathe
but neither of us do.
The pounce.
She lunges.
A torrent of water, and the slop, fly at me.
I pounce too,
leading with the net.
She snarls, caught,
unable to flee, as she likes,
from the fight.
The thrashing begins.
It starts angry, agressive.
Becomes terrified, erratic.
Finishes panicked, desperate.
Her pain hurts.
I freeze, then free her and fling aside the net.
We tumble together into the mud,
me holding her, her holding tears.
Through the pale brown
she is invisible.
I worry I am losing her.
For a moment she slips away.
But then we bring each other back.
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