But in the shadows, silent creeks tilt black water seaward and kingfishers peel down from the box elders in parabolic streaks of cerulean to scatter shimmering schools of little bream. Moccasins as big around as pulp timber swim across in broad daylight and giant gar, toothy and archaic, roll idly in and out of the shadows.
Along these drainages are the richest bottomlands shaded by mammoth oaks and sycamores where turkeys roost and where copperheads, embellished with the exquisite pastels of oak and sunlight, rest like a savage poem in in the leaves.
H.S. Bridges
