Marsh Girl

A story inspired by a recent visit to Vancouver Island.

The sun crests above the canopies of the old oak trees, and a slant of east light falls across her face, waking her. She leaves the dream world slowly: first the light, then a red-winged blackbird's call, but it's the whispers of poplars beyond the marsh that finally draw her into this world. Slipping a pale arm through the mosquito net, she parts the soft muslin cocoon to spend a quiet moment with the bright but gentler morning sun. Eyes shut, she lingers in the strip of light across the soft, worn cotton of her mom’s quilt, lapping it up like a moth. Her hand searches the bed for her manly, wild one, French, but his side is still empty—not yet home from his nocturnal wanderings. No matter. She should get up. Foggy from dreaming, she finds the forest-green tank top, discarded last night, and pulls it over wild moppy hair, and the dusty-rose lounging bra she slept in. She stands barefoot on the cool wood floor, arching her spine with arms up and back and yawning deeply. She steps into the black linen shorts left on the floor by the bed and shuffles to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She measures espresso into the small silver Bioletti, lights the element, and sets the pot on the blue flame to percolate. Each day begins the same: sun, pat, stretch, yawn, dress, make coffee. It’s all habit now; she doesn’t have the focus for more because she’s not truly indoors. From the moment she wakes, she’s in the marsh.

After a quick washroom stop, she slides open the glass door, letting her home expand onto the deck. Creeping across the chilled composite boards, she leans over the glass railing, releasing her stale morning essence to the wild and replacing it with the marsh’s life force. The musky air, fresh and damp from the night, tastes of the earth with each breath. The sky is clear—rare for morning, often shrouded in mist or thick soup fog. The pure morning sun feels like a gift, not to be wasted. Clouds will move in soon enough, and the calmness of this moment will be swept away by the afternoon sun.

The marsh stirs, organisms breathing in and out as one. She tiptoes down the five steps to the boardwalk and is swallowed by the marsh. Cross-legged at the edge, nearly tipping into the stirring water, she watches green life stretch in all directions. Tilting forward, she slides her hand along the small pea-like heads. They sink with her touch, then spring back, undisturbed. She often imagines falling in, the dense green carpet closing in around her as if she’d never been. It’s not a fear but a comfort.

Leaning back on her hands, she searches for her morning friends. The blackbird who tried to rouse her earlier and her black-feathered friends are incognito. The air stills. Is a storm brewing? She lies on her stomach, hanging her head over the water. Floating vegetation bubbles and wiggles with unseen tenants. Lifting to her elbows, her gaze drifts to the tall reeds and grasses. Insects flit, sparkling in the sun. A small red dragonfly catches her eye, resting impatiently on a small yellow lily bud. Could it, too, be waiting with bated breath for the lilies to open?

The dragonfly rolls its head as if to say, “I couldn’t care less about lilies. I’m looking for breakfast.” She smiles.

The kettle whistles. Light-footed, she jogs up the stairs to her bright kitchen. Is there a better smell than fresh coffee mingling with morning marsh air? She opens the baby-blue fridge, pours milk into her favourite duck mug—a Salvation Army find from five years ago—and fills it with espresso, adding a splash of boiling water. Burying her nose in the cup, she breathes in the rich beans before taking a cautious sip. Careful not to spill, though she often does, she steps back into the marsh, choosing the west deck where a lounger waits and the thin slice of the ocean sits on the horizon. The sky is pale salmon-pink, touched with gold, even though the sun rises behind her. The east sun may draw her out, but it’s the west where she sits all day, hiding out in the shade of her little cottage as the sun passes along the south. Here. She’ll stay cool even on hot summer days, sipping coffee and spying on any neighbours following the trails around the marsh.

Bitty Blue stands frozen, one leg raised, gaze locked on the ocean. Occasionally, she makes a dramatic show of snapping up a fish, delighting her watcher each time, despite having seen it a hundred times and captured a thousand photos of this beautiful heron. The oyster boats are tethered for the day in the bay, always up before her, no matter when she wakes.

A soft back arches against her bare leg, and she scoops up her manly French. He’s returned from the hunt, eager to lavish dry, sharp kisses on any available skin while kneading dough into her rounded stomach. He eats well in the forest, so his breakfast can wait until she refills her coffee. She watches Bitty Blue as French stares up at her. Honey buzzes past, sipping nectar from the brightly coloured nasturtiums on the deck, his vibrant green effervescent feathers humming as he darts from flower to flower, catching French’s attention. She hushes her love, settling him with a scratch behind the ear—Honey’s a friend, not breakfast.

“Should I write today?” she asks French.

He doesn’t know or care.

She sets him down and shuffles back to the coffee pot, her cat scuttling ahead, sleek black fur gleaming in the morning sun as he leads her to his dry kitty kibble. She hums an old Leonard Cohen tune that's always swimming in her head and pours the last of the espresso into her mug.

Is that an apple-green dot on the lagoon? She squints toward the sea, spilling the top of her cup onto the stove, where it’ll remain unnoticed as her focus stays on the growing green dot parting the marsh plants. Smiling, she retreats to the shadows, sipping her coffee to wait. The apple-green canoe wavers with Rosie’s thick, pulsing brown body, her tail wagging eagerly as she sits high in the front like a ship’s figurehead. She laughs. If she had a tail, it would be wagging, too.

She sets her cup on the table, hops down the steps into the marsh, and slips along the bobbing dock, rising and falling with the breath of the marsh. She dances around her bright red canoe and plops down at the end to wait impatiently for her friend. She will not be writing today.