Swamp Song

It occurred to me: Nature was loud.   It must have been hours by now. The crickets seemed to reach into my ears—with their sharp, tangy little legs—and rattle my ear bones.   The smell like rotting hay and mulch became a part of me and me of it.   The frogs: Ack ack. Ack ack. Ack ack.   How many? A million. Countless. Who knows? Tiny little frogs. Behind me, around me, watching.   Ack ack.   I pulled out my phone again, for the 100th time that night, checked: no service. Still. No surprise.   I could play the stupid games if I wanted to, though. It would be something to drive away the thick blackness of the swamp night, but I don’t dare use up the battery.   There’s a barn in the distance. I can just see it in the moonlight. And if I look far enough, another one, and another. There are always barns in the distance here, where you’re not totally in the woods, and nowhere near civilization. Barns are like fireworks. You can see them for miles, but you can’t touch them. By the time you get there, they’re gone—or you wish they were.   I need to get on that quarterly report.   Ah, God, why can’t I wake up today?   More of the breakroom coffee does nothing for me, it’s just like throwing pebbles at a sandstorm. It gets cold as my eyes slide shut again and I slip into the swamp   and now I am wet and i am muddy   muddy   in the distance i hear music   is it coming from a barn?   above me the trees wave back and forth   black branches against the night   back and forth   i sink into the mud   ack ack