Kristen Lindquist
Natural History
The boardwalk through the lush primeval swamp takes you past true giants: old-growth bald cypress trees over 500 years old. Some of these trees were standing tall when the first pillaging conquistadors landed on the Florida coast. They’ve survived centuries of hurricanes, cycles of drought, and rampant deforestation. Native Seminoles and runaway slaves hid among their trunks, subsisted. Generations of wood storks, ibises, herons, and egrets have clung to these branches, tended messy nests. Songbirds you never see sing loudly in the overstory above the moldering remains of an old plume-hunters’ camp. Curling leaves of epiphytes sprout from bark, soak up the heavy air. Alligators sun at the trees’ feet, or snakes, soundless in the dark water. Occasionally, rumors of a panther. Under your small palms one huge tree’s fibrous bark feels rough and dry, the curling cover of an ancient book.
blooming amid the ghost stories ghost orchid
About the Author
Kristen Lindquist is a poet, writer, and naturalist in Camden, Maine. She has published two collections of poetry and maintains a daily haiku blog at kristenlindquist.com/blog.