Keith Grimes

THE END OF THE MARSH

We walk along the rough wooden planks forming a boardwalk trail strewn across the bustling Arcadia Marsh Nature Preserve. The planks form an ordered walkway over the shallow water, through stands of trees and across small meadows, and guide us through various ecosystems. Small green signs posted along the path point out the local species of both flora and fauna. The scorching July sun is high overhead and the air shimmers with humidity just above the water. The birds are not as lively at midday as at daybreak or sunset, but the display teeming with life around us doesn’t disappoint. We walk this peaceful path because we need a reset after last night, where we might rediscover old memories and moments that once bound us so tightly together.

I take the lead, my wife beside me, since I am the more avid bird enthusiast. She is enthralled more by what is occurring under the duckweed-covered surface of the marsh, eager to spot a family of painted turtles or a school of sculpins. Her ears perk up at the “gullup” of a wary bullfrog hidden beneath a thick clump of stinging nettles, while I stand mesmerized by the acrobatic dance of a handful of tree swallows feeding on insects in mid-flight. Their erratic flight patterns, darting left then right, quickly gaining altitude then dropping just as fast, changing directions on a whim—a reminder of how tenuous our bond has become. 

Michigan marshes are accustomed to loss. Over 80 percent of the Great Lakes coastal marshes have been lost to man-made development. This Arcadian jewel is now one of only 16 coastal marshes that remain in Michigan. A combination of marsh and sedge meadow, the preserve stands at approximately 300 acres and is home to over 250 bird species, 200 plant species, and nearly 30 fish species. All thanks to the conservation efforts of the Grand Traverse Regional Lake Conservancy. I feel the life of this place in my bones, its will to survive against all odds. I look at my wife and I want to fight for what we have left—our children, our home, our memories—to rebuild on the remains of our 30 years together. 

We hold hands as we walk down the path. A stiff breeze blows across the lake and nearly takes her hat with it. We laugh after spotting another hat already embedded in a solitary patch of blooming arrowheads. A previous catch by the plucky bluster. I marvel aloud at the cloudless azure dome above us, encircling us, touching down at the far corners of the verdant earth. She echoes my wonder. 

Farther along the path we encounter a mating pair of mute swans lazily floating along a hidden current further out in the water. Their snow-white plumage and fiery orange beaks offer no camouflage against our prying eyes. They are alone, separated from the other swans, and we wonder if this is normal behavior. Are they a gregarious species like other birds, or do they actively prefer their solitude? In direct opposition to my wife, I prefer my solitude and enjoy separating from the group at large. She is gregarious and out-going, much like the red-winged blackbirds hovering and calling loudly out over the tall cattails. They appear to float on the wind, then dive toward the lower tree branches in screaming packs, chittering and chirping among the group. 

I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close. She doesn’t resist and I am relieved. This marsh is a respite for the many species of birds that travel through it. Calm and inviting, welcoming travelers into nature’s bosom. We are caught up in the moment, like the birds, without worry of what will come tomorrow. No talk of divorce, not in this moment. A green heron passes overhead, squeaking out a solitary honk as it settles into the upper branches of a dead elm tree, its handsome green feathers sparking in the sunlight give life back to a tree long past its prime.

A stunning cluster of Allegheny monkeyflower spreads out before us with its blue and purple monkey face petals staring back, taking our collective breath away. Like some opulent Persian carpet unfurling to the horizon, daring you to remain unaffected. It reaches out across the marsh, touching land far off to the east. Among them sprout several caches of purple bull thistle. Goldfinches flock in the area feeding on the thistle seeds, a stunning display of canary-yellow flitting among the purple landscape. These birds, so energetic and vibrant, personify joy of life. I quietly thank God for this moment. For the beauty of this marsh and the hope it inspires. Hope that my wife's feelings about our marriage have changed, mollified. 

Suddenly we reach the end of the marsh path and she says she wants to talk. We watch in silence as the solitary pair of swans take to flight, low over the marshy lake, but gradually gaining altitude over the trees spreading out over the horizon. They disappear into the clouds. I don’t want to talk, but I keep that to myself. I would prefer to hold this moment before us, to revel in the small miracles occurring everywhere in the remote recesses of the marsh. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to hear about the future I fear she envisions without me. This marsh has survived against the odds. Can we?

A pair of monarch butterflies hover around us, their flight intertwined in a beautiful spiraling dance. Their orange and black wings blaze in the afternoon sun. This marsh will blossom to life as the day cools and the sun sets over Lake Michigan. Tomorrow, it will begin its cycle anew. Suddenly, the butterflies part in midair and flutter off to different parts of the marsh. Their spiral dance ended. I wonder if they will find each other again. Perhaps they have done all that they came here to do.

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KEITH GRIMES HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN DUNES REVIEW, WAYMARK LITERARY MAGAZINE, AND PARENTING MAGAZINE. HE HOLDS A BACHELOR’S DEGREE IN ENGLISH FROM OAKLAND UNIVERSITY AND WORKS AS A TECHNICAL WRITER. WHEN HE’S NOT WRITING, YOU CAN FIND HIM WATCHING TOO MANY AWFUL NETFLIX MOVIES WITH HIS WIFE, MINDLESSLY TOSSING TOYS FOR HIS DOG TO FETCH, AND READING THRILLER NOVELS.