Sunset of Black Creek

[WaltonUndercurrent]

Sunset of Black Creek

The tall bird with the long beak stands beneath the cypress each day. Nearby, the old boathouse sits alone on the bank of the narrow black river, covered in briar and moss, a slow fading rumor of the distant past spread by the soft rythmic whispers of clanking brown tin and gentle water against rotted wood.

Inside, the broken shadows of the sun with their jagged silhouettes hide the thick, murky bottom from the young crab watchers and feet danglers who've discovered the forgotten temple in the deep brush and spin the old umbrella, its bright colors faded from green to gray and red to rust, left by the tough old woman who would come each morning with her pole to sit and talk for hours to the bobbing little cork and the tall bird with the long beak.

"The mullet don't bite like they used to," she said that last day when the cane poles in the rafters were still shiny and yellow as gold. "It smells like rain," she said. "I reckon I'll get on back to the house."

The rain came, then the sun, then nights filled with the sounds of countless creatures in the dark, then other quiet days, silence broken only by the feint buzz of distant outboards outrunning a storm or on their way to supper. And each day, a tall bird with a long beak still stands beneath a cypress, and waits.

[kurt]

Nice - reminds me of a tough old woman who still fishes for mullet with a cane pole, spitting tobacco juice while boring the bobber with tales of when the shrimp were plentiful in the tea-colored waters of Peach Creek.

Nearby is the rusted tin boathouse with rotting wood, occasional feet danglers, big-beaked birds, and tall cypress.

[tylerT]

Sounds like a beautiful place! Thanks for sharing!

[WaltonUndercurrent]

It tis!

[mputnal3]

Thank you. That sums up my sentiments about our special place with a touch of nostalgia...

[Franny]

Nice - reminds me of a tough old woman who still fishes for mullet with a cane pole, spitting tobacco juice while boring the bobber with tales of when the shrimp were plentiful in the tea-colored waters of Peach Creek.

Nearby is the rusted tin boathouse with rotting wood, occasional feet danglers, big-beaked birds, and tall cypress.

I miss watching her fish for mullet!