Photo of the Everglades by Flickr user Rasmus Bøgeskov Larsen.

Boundaries between earthwatersky melt here, blur. You are 4000 years in the past, 200 years in the future; you are DNA, corpuscles, marl, periphyton. You are limestone pockets, banyan root, propagule, gallinule, ghost orchid, ancient mahogany hidden in hammock.

Dry and wet cycles let the same parts of the earth switch roles. Tides move creatures; creatures move in and out with the tides, with the filling and emptying of cypress domes and gator pits. Every-Thing grows from inside out, shrinks from outside in. . .and lives.

I take these words, juggle them on my fingertips, over the shoulder, behind the back, under the leg, keep them airborne. I leap and grab, spin, swirl, to make patterns in air, in time, to dance my wobble dance in layered sequins of words, plumes of words, hexagons of words, splatters, splashes of words—all of them launched into this ripe air by my hands, home at last in wind gusts, swarms, bright fog, in the constancy of rise and fall, lift and lilt, words spin off, quiet as light, in all directions.

I move between conceiving and reading, scribbling and sanding, constructing, deconstructing, combining, dissecting, spiraling, unravelling between sunrise and sunset.

I ramble, stick in hand, or paddle across mullet-infested waters, looking for dolphins, manatees.

On land I crawl under gates or walk around them, watch my step, abandon my watch, look, listen, approach, retreat. Walls of structure fall away. Elements of architecture cannot contain what the eye sees, what water and wind deliver, what changes.