Writing is barefoot swamp-water walking.
Toes testing the firmness of the mud.
Treading slowly to avoid
sink-holes,
submerged stumps,
sharp branches unseen.
It is
      sweating
               in hot,
                       humid,
                              stale air.
It is being abandoned to a storm of insects
in the realm of steady eyed reptiles.
It is feeling
              the brush
                        against the legs
of swirlings in dark, organic waters.

It is crafting the dugout
that shelters life
in this tribal land.