Bayou

I think the title says it all...

When the first prospectors and miners came up here, this was beaver bog. As the first tents, houses, and other buildings went up, because of the richness of the soil, it became the town's cattle pasture. One-hundred thirty-four years ago, upon that stretch of land, a miner built a cabin, which would eventually morph into a funky-gotta have the funk!-one bedroom Victorian cottage we call the House of Owls and Bats.

For the first time in five years, there is standing water out back. Ankle deep around the willow. I throw out mosquito dunks, silently wondering if I'll have to kill them with a shovel-perhaps a gun?-this year. The further back into the property you walk, the spongier the ground becomes. I consider gumbo in the near future, for I find it in context.

Across the street, at the river, there is a rock I like to sit out with something liquid and watch the water and the world amble by. It's relaxing. Here and now, I can hear the leviathan. Two of my footrest rocks and one of the others I use to measure the level of the river are under water. Across the river is a large flat stone I refer to as the oh fuck! rock. When it gets submerged, there's street flooding and sandbagging in the lower-lying areas of town. Here and now, the water line is halfway up.

Yessirie, the excitement never stops...