They sit, solemn, watching,
green, still as the pampas
grass in the windless night,
their hymns all swimming
through a dead summer air
that hangs in a droop.

Scattered marble eyes, inky,
throats humming over the buzz
of flies swarming the sky black,
you see their smooth skin shine
under blue bayou moonlight.

They sit, silent, concealing
secrets, which they have,
overheard, as one amber
light pulses its glow in time
with their chants, flickering
deep within the soggy swamp.