

Singing to the WetlandsI'm the girl with bayou eyes, twigs, mud and death snaking into my curls. I pause to breathe and s-h-o-c-k, shock sets in:Singing to the Wetlands
Day One. Earthen clasps latch on my arms, pulling me back down; the meandering waters clutch at my bell-shaped elbows.
Day Six. My smile is climatic; the sun always seems to shine, burning the layers of leaves but I can't even put up a fight to remember it's grace.
Day Seventeen. I'm surrounded by an animalistic embrace-- mismatched light from alligator stares and throaty frog musings. &nb

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An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy that sustains him through temporary bouts of joy.
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An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy that sustains him through temporary bouts of joy.
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