In April at Lake Martin,
snowy egrets nest in cypress like
fragments of clouds dropped
From Louisiana sky, an afterthought of heaven.
Egret mothers by the hundreds gather
thousands of strands. They glide white over water
to neighboring woods, then back,
their basket straw of vines and twigs
drooping from elegant heads.
Strands of Spanish moss are swamp scarves
draped on tupelo—Nyssa aquatica —the
water nymph who shrouded the river
when Evangeline made her mournful trip
Down the Atchafalaya, never again to lay eyes on Acadie.
When the evening sky turns pink, it is hard to tell
the logs from the alligators.
All is not hushed; there is a mesmerizing rhythm
in the orchestra of owls, frogs and insects
who sweep the dream path clear for nestlings.
The night is sapphire, but for the golden orbs of owls
who watch the moon and listen to the pines
murmur their secrets. They wait for morning,
and the new pink sky.
Soon there will be fresh pink
in the cypress limbs. Roseate spoonbills
mass the trees just down the path
from the white forest of egrets.
Pink mothers perch high,
a dream of strawberry ice,
complete with spoons, waiting
to feed the rosiest-cheeked babies.
Mist covers Lake Martin,
blurring the white and pink,
floating through miles of ancient branches,
laying a soft veil over the swamp,
hiding it from the world.