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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