Congaree Epiphany

To the five or so tiny

spiders, innocuous, pale

and curved as my fingernail,

please forgive me.

Unfounded fear mingles

with the dull throb of muscadine

wine, and a sigh of my paddle

sends your bodies plunging

below tannin-choked waters,

dark as chicory coffee. Between

a labyrinth of cypress knees,

I marvel when these exquisite

dancers soon surface,

buoyant miracles

pirouetting from the murk.

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