The heat and humidity are so thick, it feels like sucking on cotton. A great blue heron lifts off, slow and graceful, the tips of its wings almost grazing the surface of the water. You paddle deeper. Sunlight filters through the Spanish moss as though they were stained glass in a cathedral. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the stirring of wind chimes. Not the pretty kind—these are made of bones and shells and rusted keys.
Round the bend, following the sound.
Leave the canoe onshore and follow a set of freshly-laid tracks.
Sometimes the trail doesn’t feel right… nothing wrong with turning back.