marsh ovenbird When I dream of water it is never benevolent, so I was surprised to find the mind-marsh from November’s first midnight unusually tame. I found myself in an origami kayak, folded like a childhood note, passed between whispering classmates, sticky with white-out and wet with pink ballpoint hearts. I navigated narrow channels, choked with fragrant white waterlilies, cut through a copse of cattails, and emerged into open water. Not far across the rippling expanse, an island, or a spit of land, with a dilapidated interpretive center, boarded up and bitten by dry rot. I set my sights on that architectural ghost and paddled with all my might. Waves came up from the marsh, though there was no wind or storm to stir the depths. They weren’t the two hundred foot behemoths that usually come for me, only five foot crests, bending over themselves, but they were wild enough to threaten my flimsy boat and I struggled to traverse their peaks without capsizing. I woke, and knew…something troubles the unconscious sea. The thing is just a baby tsunami, nothing that could pull me under, nothing that could swallow me down. But something, something is shifting, rising, rearing up, and my boat is concerningly fragile. And there are rocks in the looming shallows. 261102 what's it to you? who go blather from