It is Thursday. A narrow course out of the rushes. A closing in. The crunch of spent things under foot. The press of the tall stalks. Filigree of dragonfly. There is no place to rest here. No opening broad enough to curl up in. There is only onward.
Stop a moment. Listen. There are eggs in nests in the hidden. There is answer to the wind's tease. A susurrus. And high and high above, small cloud scutts across the blue.
I could be rush too. I could be cattail, sweet flag, sedge. I could stand. I could simply stand.