my entries for the Construct Cup |
east of Memphis, the Wolf’s current stops, breaks into the placid explosion of life that is the Ghost River. I found it, one summer day. paddled in a canoe through unchartable channels lined by river reeds. cypress stands loomed tall, their bases pale where floods have worn their bark away. I reached to touch them, felt their scars, marveled at the juxtaposition between smooth and rough. reeds and pond scum dyed the river in shades of moss, hiding fish and snakes that shared my road. there was no stillness, no silence there. shrieks of birds and buzzing insects sang a constant melody that washed at my mind, freed me from the stress for an hour or three. sometimes, when I’m home, and the sounds of the highway jar me awake, I remember the song of the swamp. I dream the Ghost River. line count: 33 Prompt for: April 20, 2016 ▼ |