When the wind gets up and the water rises,

those who live on higher ground, at a distance

from the pinched smell of pluff mud,

from spartina marshes and swamps of cypress knees,

upland from the tannin-black tributaries

where through the bottoms, among the wet-footed

spider lilies, one barred owl

calls another, one to the other till there's little left to say,

upland from the cottonmouth and the brown water snake

coiled and rooted by the tupelo

and the alligators logging across the slough,

upland from the deer hound pens full of yelps—

full of naps and pacing, full of cedar-thicket dreaming—

and the dirt yard's milling of gray cats

and striped kittens yawning by the palmettos,

upland from the sea sky sea—the horizon

a fine line polished away—

from the shrimp boats shrinking smaller and smaller

on their way to their serious work of gathering,

from the smooth, quick balancing act

of the sun—heavy and orange—riding the waves,

upland from salt myrtle and the season's second growth

of trumpet honeysuckle, those who live at a distance

from the band of quick, dark clouds blooming at sea,

upland from the bang and whirl, clatter

and shake of the wind when it's up,

those who live on higher ground ask

of those who live by the flats and shoals,

the shallows and bogs, Why, and again, Why, O why.