Mud-Men

We coated ourselves in a blanket
of mud and dozed with the cattails
on the bank.

A man once died not five feet
from here, slumped forward,
his feet fermenting in the cold
water.

We heard his voice in our dreams.
He spoke of nibbling fish and biting
pebbles under our bottoms.

He was a mud-man like us, making
friends with mosquitoes and horseflies.
His hands were caked with dirt
and the juice of onions.

He was a muddy man, composing
morning songs with sparrows
and swallows, and he died
with his sixty-six year old
toes dangling in the current.

Now he sleeps in the sky
and speaks to us in our mud
dreams, with wild grasses and cattails
swaying above our heads.