The Mire of Bayou Rouge
The bayou does not give up its dead. It keeps them—suspended in the dark water, wrapped in cypress roots and the tangled hair of water hyacinth, their faces preserved by the tannins like fruit in jar, eyes open and milky and watching. The Cajuns know this. They have known it for three hundred years, since the Acadians first dragged their families and their prayers into these swamps to escape...
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