On the fringes

The marshland reaches out fingers into the river.
Cattails stipple the grasses, red-wings swoop and
stop short, cling to swaying thistle-stalks.
I have lived my life on the fringes
where earth meets water hesitantly,
where loon calls to moon, swans glide silently,
long-legged insects walk on the water, their feet
both in and on the surface –
a trick, an art.