In my canticle of creation, the bayou is my brother and the cypress trees are my soul sisters. Their spring song is all tender, feathery green.
The summer verse features solos by birds too varied and plentiful to number, embellished by inaudible (you must listen carefully!) trills of dragonfly and damselfly niads climbing the trunks to break forth as winged jewels, leaving impossibly small exoskeletons now split down the back but clinging to the bark long after the life they sheltered has departed.
In autumn, the throats of my sisters deepen to coppery red and gold, transforming the dark surface of the bayou into a shimmering Monet masterpiece.
Now that winter is here, plentiful brown balls ornament the bare limbs and yield their seeds to squirrels and birds, now quieter in the chill, that patiently peck and pry.
O, cypress tree! O cypress tree! You stand in splendid beauty!