Waders and bitterns shy away into the reedy beds, and the salt water comes to mix death with life as is the case everywhere on land. What you find when you look into the sodium shallows, murky with nightmares, may challenge you, may frighten you out of your wits, but it must be faced, if you are to skirt this place and continue your journey.
For this is a betweening place, a not-sea, not-land minefield of slow rushes and long rough. A place for sinking not standing, to be passed through and never built on, unless you are a fool or a bird happy in a house made of straw. Everything here is washed away over and over, tide after tide, and the cries of migrants call harsh on the wind.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com