The swamp no longer held its breath. The frogs sang. The water moved. And an old woman, carved from river oak, turned away from the bank and walked toward a path she had not taken in forty years. Somewhere behind her, a single red feather drifted down and settled on the black water like a kiss.
Elara knelt in the muck once more, her hands folded in her lap. “Go on,” she said. “Fly.” old woman swamp scarlet ibis
She stood up slowly.
“Alright,” she said. “Alright.”