Sitting on the deck here at Swamp Camp with morning sun warming the nape of my neck. Trying to deworm myself of the squirmies that make me think I need to “Work, work, work , work , work work work….” All is calm ‘cept for the the neighbors coon digs warming up for the midnight choir. Winter’s angle of light fills pools gently pulsing in reflections of Cypress at ease with their gnarls and the storms survived and yet to come. There is brokenness all around. The old trailer wracked by floods and meth cooking. Love notes of Red and Jamie Lynn inscribed on moldy bedroom walls and the fish cleaning table. Geaux Saints keep marching in and the Light keeps getting through shimmering out of this diminished thing.