“What’s a bog?” asked Pooh. “If your ankles get wet, that’s a bog.” said Eeyore. “I see”, said Pooh. “Whereas,” continued Eeyore, “if you sink in up to your neck, that’s a swamp.”

As we gaze in awe at the natural beauty surrounding us we are unaware of the fact that we are being watched. The watchers identify us as being intruders therefore they watch through wary, cautious eyes.
Upon entering a Florida swamp one can’t help but be struck by a sense of timeless nature, tranquil and apparently, at first glance, unchanging.

That impression could hardly be more deceiving.

Far from what its outward appearance might imply the swamp is not a garden of easy abundance but precisely the opposite. Where at first the quiet, leafy opulence might appear a sanctuary it is in reality a bloody battlefield hosting an unremitting fight for survival that occupies its inhabitants every moment of every day.

Though most frequently impossible for the casual observer to discern, every inch of space is rich and rampant with life. From the soil under our feet to the soaring tops of the tree canopy over our heads it is rampant with numberless life forms and everything is connected and interconnected.

Fungal organisms in the soil eat the dead and in turn are eaten until, if one were able, a subtle suggestion of sound might be heard, the whisper and gurgle as the swamp functions as a gigantic digestive system.
Here then is an ever changing remorseless cycle of life and death.

By stepping into this habitat with all its radical complexities and contradictory simplicities, like it or not, we become one with it.

To some, entering the swamp might very well elicit feelings of confinement so implicit it evokes a sense almost claustrophobic in its intensity. Thick, dense foliage surrounds us, limiting our sight to only a few feet at most while the tannin darkened waters under our feet conceal…what?

Even a small swamp several thousand acres in extant can present a daunting experience to the initiate.
The swamp, so constant and yet ever changing offers a glimpse into the very beating heart of this wonderful thing we call nature.

Due to the region’s latitude the swamp is provided a relatively stable temperature and a moist environment which constantly nourishes the indigenous species that call this their home.

Trees such as the cypress are the most obvious of the swamps inhabitants as they rush to lift their crowns above that of their neighbors in search of sunlight and by this very act expose themselves to the one thing that can topple them, for there, with their heads reaching for the clouds they become vulnerable to to storm winds avoided by those more timid of its neigbors that are content to remain low and and inconspicuous.
Vines climb that they may also benefit from the life giving sun but do they climb straight? No, they rise, snake like; in swirls, loops and curlicues thus adapting wonderfully as the tree bends and sways in the wind. Think of it, if the vines wre straight and inflexible they would break from the strain therefore those loops and swirls act like coil springs, allowing the vines to gently stretch and yield and survive.
If we could behold it from the perfect eye of omniscience we could see the swamp breathe for as the trees transpire, or in a sense sweat, they pump water into the atmosphere from their leaves, this water meets warm air and condenses into rain thus the swamp exhales thin white clouds of condensing moisture that rises above us like the breath of some sleeping creature on a cold winter dawn.
And then there are the sounds.
Oh sure, there are some that we recognize such as the chittering and scrape of a pair of squirrels as they chase each other through and around the foliage or the chirr of a prowling raccoon or maybe the demented laughter of a pileated woodpecker. But then, quite suddenly we stop and stare as some creature screams, the sound to be cut off in the jaws of a hungry predator.

On the stillest day we might hear a large bough break from its parent tree and come crashing to the ground with awful impact, or the racket of a dead, dry palm frond clattering its way to the ground.
And then there are the night silences.

One moment the swamp is alive with the trills of countless frogs and insects and perhaps the drowsy chirping of a sleepy bird and then, quite suddenly, there is absolute stillness; leaving one to wonder what is going to hapen next, for in that place and at that time you know that a predator is on the prowl.

So then, this is the swamp; the living swamp, my swamp.

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