Mosquitoes need it wet, that’s true,
but the problem’s less a problem since
the cotton fields gave way to rice, and rice
likes water on the move, not pools of it
that only flatten further this flat land
(so a kind man said to me our first summer here,
who seemed to know), which means
the snapshot in your mind must change,
like everything, like even these fields
that once were jungles before Percy
and his children grew their gardens
on the backs of slaves and immigrants.
I’m 15 miles from the river, but get
to see it only when it’s down and looks
like nothing to write you about until
I saw I stood on its bed of rocks
shaped by water into clumsy figurines.
I don’t buy it, by the way,
about the bugs. I’m still here
though, so what do I know?
Photo by Josh*m
