I was born of the swamp. I felt foreign toes come alive as I stepped out from salty marsh, gasping between the stretched mud strings pulling then breaking on my lips dripping onto my thirsty tongue. Grasping at cow-tails, I've got a handful of dragonfly wings instead. And I returned sacs of humus from my elbows plopped into the water. I was so thirsty. Thirsty like the gnats who met their genocide at golden-silk orbs-- oh, false sun. I wander. I pray. Slamming my knuckles against the clay of crocodile's teeth then I return to humility.