If you listen close enough, you can hear music. Music in the trees and the water and the cloud-covered sky and even in my boat. And, together, they make a grand symphony. The branches that sway and rustle against each other, susurrating in the breeze. The trickle of dew off of overhanging leaves that make a suicidal fall into the water. The faint sound of rushing wind and rain in the distance. All accompanied by the creaking of my boat as I sift through the swamp. Sometimes I whistle, creating a melody for the brush’s composition. Other times, I just sit and listen, watching as the hazy light filters through the trees. I keep my line casted into the murky grey water, even though all of the fish had died a long time ago. The animals had perished soon after, which was a pity because they would have made great accompaniment in our orchestration. I have to say, it gets quite lonely when the only voices you can listen to are the whispering of trees and the growl of thunder every now and then. I wonder why I’m still here, unlike all of the others. Maybe God knew that I was the only one who could continue the song.