The swamp does not give. It only takes, and occasionally it pretends not to.
I know this because I have lived on its edge for thirty-four years, in a house my grandfather built on land his grandfather took from the earth, and the earth has never forgiven us for it. The cypress trees are draped in Spanish moss that looks like hair from a drowned woman's head. The water is black even on sunny days, because black water is what you get when rot and root and time mix...
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