I knew a man once who said to me

that when he died,

he wanted to come back as a loon.

He said their call

was his favorite sound in the world.

He taught me how to kayak

in the marsh under the Lesner Bridge.

Ten years old,

knee deep in mud, brackish water, and reeds

in the Chesapeake Bay,

he told me that when he died he would be free,

flying over the marsh.

What more is there to say?

I linger in the marsh.

Thick silt in salty bay waters

hides dangers lurking underneath.

Oyster shells that can slice your skin open.

I stayed in the marsh,

ten years old,

deep in the reeds,

friend of loons,

afraid to place my step.

I'm learning to trust the water.