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 (lgal@exp.net), February 01, 2003

Answers

How sad! Was it someone you knew?

Today has been a very sad day for our country. I imagine there have been many grim discoveries... and unfortunately, there will be more.

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 01, 2003.

Oh, Lon. I hope your story isn't real, or at least, that you didn't lose someone in your family.

-- helen (sad@sad.sad), February 02, 2003.

That's quite a picture you paint in my mind's eye Lon. Wonderfully written.

Yes Gayla, a very sad day indeed. Prayers going out for the healing of mind and spirit for each of us.

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), February 02, 2003.

(((Lon))) - a tough time, and more trials now. My heart goes out to you and your neighbours.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 02, 2003.

Beautifully written Lon, but sad, so very sad. Such a hard time to go through.

My heart also goes out to the families of those lost in the space shuttle tragedy. To be so close to holding your loved one again only to have them snatched away so near to home is unbearably cruel.

-- Carol (c@oz.com.), February 02, 2003.

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 am; 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 bayou. 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 wild iris.

-- Lon (lgal@exp.net), February 02, 2003.

Lon, please write my epitaph when the time comes...

-- helen (such@words.you.write!), February 02, 2003.

Sure, Helen! Uh, you won't be needing it,...uh, like next week or anything, right?

-- Lon (lgal@exp.net), February 02, 2003.

Just write it, dear. You never know when I might need it.

-- helen (truck@caddy.elderly.driver.who.knows?), February 02, 2003.