Canoeing through fog

There is no division between sky and lake;
we glide close to the marsh mats,
beige and blurred markers that guide our journey.
Within them, spring peepers punctuate
the discourse of red-winged blackbirds
protecting nests unseen in dried grasses.
Your paddle slides silently through water
soft and black, inking the sides of the canoe.
My paddle dips in, swirls words into water,
leaves messages for water spiders,
sky-writing for carp.

The palpable greyness holds us close to land
with porous arms and silent dense breath,
urges us to listen to the poetry of the marsh.