May Bog

A heavy green blankets the forest holding firm the warm musty morning air. Cinnamon fronds rise up orange on green. At the opening, where the floating sphagnum begins and the forest ends, the damselflies dart, the breeze adding scents to the air. The twisted fronds of the cinnamon fern (frozen as they grew in early spring) still twisted, kinked, have unfurled into a mass of unruly green. The dragonflies on the boardwalk dance their acrobatic routine snatching unseeable insects from the air. The rains come and I leave.