January Morning (from FRL)

[Lon Frank]

In the backs of coves and the shallow places, nutria sit motionless atop the low mounds of their dens like furry Russian hats, surrounded by the curly brownness of frost-wilted hyacinths. Their rodent faces burrowed between front paws, they soak in the early morning warmth of a brilliant and cloudless January morning. Tiny, dark eyes sparkle like wave ripples as they watch the boats crisscrossing the still-dark waters of the bayou.

Grim faced men throttle their motors slowly and signal to one another, one hand clutching the heavy line trailing over the gunnel. They shield their faces from the rising sun, the early light accentuating the lines of fatigue, their eyes reflecting both the hope and dread of their success. No words break the stillness, no shouts of fishermen, no hurrahs of victory in their contest with the waters.

The task of the boatmen has stretched into it?s second day and people come to gather at the little house, aunts and uncles joining the mother in their bank-side vigil, pacing and weeping as hope escapes them like the mists rising under the ancient cypresses. A band of children, cousins and friends, draw together in silent bewilderment at the sudden confrontation of their own mortality. Babies are held and hushed by neighbor ladies who have appeared laden with covered dishes of fried chicken, cold shrimp salads or crockery bowls of baked beans, swirled with the spices of recipes handed down to generations of low country daughters. The food is laid out on tables in the yard, so that no one, even in eating, would be compelled to take their eyes from the black water curling away towards the great flat marshes and the salty gulf beyond, or from the boats swirling like fallen leaves upon it?s surface. At the near spit of land, the winter bare limbs of willows droop wearily as if to add their groping tendrils to the morning?s search, their rustlings, muted as graveside whispers.

At last, the boats come together at the outside curve of an ancient ox-bow channel, and a message comes silently across the water that the search is at an end. Rope-roughened hands of the boatmen, some wearing workmen?s clothes, some in the brown uniforms of game wardens, lift the body into waiting blankets, each man marveling privately at the cold and heaviness of their burden. Much too heavy for one so young, much too cold for the ease of their souls.

[Lon Frank]

The boyfriend of a neighbor's youngest daughter, still a kid at twenty. Old enough to go out on the bayou alone, young enough to not come back. He went to run his lines at 2 a m; we found his boat with the motor still running the first morning, found his life jacket, empty and floating.

The peacefulness of he bayou, the still and silence of winter, somehow feels deeper today. But soon, the wild iris will bloom again, the willows will be softly green, and the old, old cypress trees will echo with voices of other young people, their laughter carrying across the sun sparkled surface. The dark water takes the only course it knows, brave men fall from the blue above, and our lives flow along, secure in the promise of spring, in the purple of iris.

[FrmlyZ]

Howdy Lon:

As usual, very nice. I just got home from San Diego. I have to leave for Portland in two days. I have lost all contact with the changes of the seasons.

Still, it is nice to live in the middle of the country. If the forecast is correct, we will have all of them in the next 24 h. It should get near 70 today. Thunderstorms tonight. Rain in the morning. Snow starting afternoon. High on Tue. about 21F.

I remember what you wrote about; in another life. Friend went into a cave with quicksand. Never found him. So it goes.

Best Wishes,,,,,

Z

[Pen Name]

Z, you were in San Diego and didn't even call? We could have done lunch. See how you are [img]wink.gif[/img]

Was that some gorgeous weather we had, or what. It got up to over 80 here. Strange weather for Jan/Feb. {shrug}

[larsguy]

When in doubt, blame the weather on El Nino or La Nina or a hermaphrodite infant.