Why Gators are Hard to Know

It is hard to know where the bank of the marsh stops
   and the rising, rhythmed scales begin to tell their old
      story -
   plated, blackened, soaked in yesterday's rotted and
      pungent growth,
   kissed by minnows, and serenaded by dragonflies
   while a timid winter sun beckons the mud to shine
      where tomorrow's pursed leather grows dull.

Hard to know when movement and stillness appear
      the same or different, once shadow
   then transparent impression gone
   just as quickly before it was even noticed near the
      soldiered Cypress,
   ankles and knees half in and half out of liquid black -
   here for a moment, then departed into splintered
      memory.

Hard to know where the bottom of emerald midnight
   quiets and stills into patches of illusion, shadow and
      fog
   where clouds of bubbles surface from the prowl of a
      green submarine
   feathery and tangled flora turns and pliates in
      watery ballet
   then merges and plays in deep rhapsody to breezes
      fallen into deep slumber
   while it waits for everything with forever's patience.

It is hard to know for all the creatures
   the brothers and sisters of the muck and their hiding
      places,
   the mirrored and the knobby point,
   the shallows and reeds,
   leafless branches stretching to places where wet
      bodies warm in the sun,
   toads who gurgle and croak in the rain,
   buttery Tilapias that fan their springs nests of hope,
   clans of Ibis, snaky Anhinga and mossy turtle -
 
When they will take their last breath while their
      tomorrow vanishes
   into the steel trap of no remorse, slash of tail, and full
      belly.