Anyone who thinks that a swamp or wetland or marsh is just wasted real estate has never been caught off guard by a sudden burst of white feather cutting silently through the twilight just inches above the liquid mirror of still waters as an egret hunts for its dinner... Never had their breath stop short at the sight of brown pelicans in tight formations that would make any stunt-pilot or blue angel proud... Never gazed in wonder at fishes darting about like a crystal chandelier exploding into chaos or mackerel stabbing through mid-afternoon low tide like butter knives dipping into the pale blue jelly jar of Bolsa Chica... Never marveled at fat sea slugs grazing just below waters edge like a spilled cargo of ancient water jugs nearly washed ashore after centuries... Never contemplated the chorus of voices speaking to everyone but us in a cacophony of unknown language that is so articulate and richly peppered with intricacy and nuance that we can only guess at the meanings... The wetlands are vital to our ecology, surely, but equally as important, is the grace of any bird gliding effortlessly across sky-blue water on its way from here to someplace else. by RD Armstrong
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