galoshes blog

By Gavin Murphy

Summer

The spartina is turning 
neon bright green but 
still burnished with 
browns and yellows.

The cordgrass has a root system 
that interlocks with other plants
to form a massive field of vegetation 
that covers innumerable miles 
of coastline. Thus, Spartina 
alternaflora creates a kind of 
super habitat, resisting erosion, 
and even standing up to 
hurricane winds, which very well 
may come later in the summer.

A brief sun shower: 

The spartina glistens as 
the rain falls, 
cascading down through 
sunlight. 

****
A swamp oak has taken root 
at the edge of our yard
abutting the marsh. 
It has bifurcated into two trees. 
One tree shoots straight into the sky. 
The other is twisted at its waist, 
skewing out over the water. 

(I think it's a laurel or water oak 
but google identifies it as a live oak, 
which would be very nice as they 
grow to be spectacular trees, 
the kind one sees dripping with 
spanish moss and lining long 
driveways leading to big 
plantation homes. But I 
don't think that's what it is.)

I don't want two trees, 
so I have to decide which to keep 
because if you don’t control 
the native plants growing 
in your yard next to the marsh, 
you will end up dwelling in a 
subtropical forest with rat snakes 
hanging from the trees.

(Did I mention that rat snakes eat rats?)

Meanwhile, honey bees have 
taken over the bird bath.
They’re hot and thirsty 
and seem to like the algae 
or whatever that green stuff is 
that grows on the 
edge of the birdbath.

The birds and the bees don’t 
necessarily like sharing the 
birdbath but they do.

Dragonflies come with the heat. 
Manic. They put the bug in bug eyed.
(Or is it the eye in bug eyed?)

****
Ospreys, often in pairs, soar 
in the sky above, scanning 
the marsh water for prey. 
An outgoing tide makes it easier 
to spot their favorite food: fish.

****
Sounds puncture the 
silence in the marsh.
Typically birds calling. 
Often just the breeze 
rustling leaves in the 
trees, whispering in
the spartina. A kayaker’s 
paddle stroking through 
the water, the craft
sliding through some partially 
submerged cordgrass.

Somewhere above a seagull cries. 
A crow caws.  A car crosses a 
nearby bridge, its tires humming.

Sometimes you can hear the 
oysters feeding, their shells 
snapping mandible like.
Filtering the brackish broth 
containing plankton and 
other nutrients through their gills,
they make a popping clacking 
noise.

These mollusks filter and clean 
a lot of marsh water. (Because 
these oyster beds are too close to
human activity, we don’t eat them.)

Birds like to hide in the cordgrass - 
Not just marsh hens but wrens, 
sparrows, blackbirds. The marsh 
also provides protection for animals.

Alligators don’t inhabit the salt 
marsh, except when they do. 
They aren’t supposed to be in 
salt water but they basically go 
wherever they want. I’ve seen 
them where they are not 
supposed to be, but never in 
our section of the marsh. Not
yet anyway.

The herons, storks, ibis and other 
‘wading birds’ like to build their nests
in high trees in more remote areas 
above alligator infested fresh water 
as the gators keep the coons 
and other nest raiding predators 
at bay.

Of course there are 
alligators in nearby rivers, 
and every once in a while, 
one or two go surfing in the 
ocean (which they are not 
s'posed to do because,  
again, they’re s'posed
to stay in fresh water.)

Yes, the marsh and some of the 
remaining adjacent maritime 
forest are still wild, but not too wild. 
There’s no bears left. No water 
moccasins, at least not in our 
immediate vicinity. 

There are a few rattlesnakes in
the dunes on the beach side of the 
island. (They too sometimes
go where they’re not supposed 
to.)

Coyotes have recently 
been digging up sea turtle 
nests, but there are no 
panthers or pythons, 
at least not yet, though 
some of the latter may 
find their way up I-95 
from Florida at some 
point. 

There are some wild boar 
stampeding about in uninhabited
areas, the descendants of escaped 
domesticated swine, and very 
elusive. Years ago I actually
caught a glimpse of a feral hog,
by glimpse I mean about five 
seconds of its rump, which it 
had in high gear, vanishing into
the bush. (Yes, you can eat 
wild boar and hunting them
in fact is encouraged because 
they’re considered invasive
pests. Don’t expect them to
taste like pork chops from 
Kroger. Some folks insist boar
meat is better. I don’t know.)

Bobcats have been spotted 
but I’ve never seen one.

I steer the kayak back to land.
The tide is going out now.
When I step out of the kayak
my foot sinks in pluff mud.
If I’m not careful the mud will 
suck the shoes right off my feet. 
I manage to extricate myself
from the squishy stuff and 
make it to shore.

When they are not diving for fish, 
the ospreys simply waltz in the sky, 
chirping a high-pitched chirp
to one another, sometimes 
urgently, perhaps announcing
their territory or conversing with 
a mate.

(You would think a hawk with 
ferocious talons capable of
plucking a fish almost it’s own
size from the ocean would
have a more formidable call.)



Another high flyer that 
occasionally appears
in the sky: bald eagles.
One might ride a thermal 
before perching for a few 
minutes atop a utility pole,
then disappear.



****
As it gets hotter, activity 
at the bird bath drops off.
The doves do come 
often around sundown…

My poem: 

When the Doves Come 

They come with the dusk.
Tentatively.

They gather in the shadows on the 
ground at the base of the birdbath.
Fluttering their wings, 
sometimes cooing, skittish.

A bold one leaps to the edge 
of the birdbath. Eventually others follow, 
gathering in communal confidence.
Safe together.

Until

One senses something amiss. 
It breaks for a nearby tree. 
Then another bolts 
and the entire flock erupts,
scattering in the twilight
like ascending stars.

Leaving one lone bird 
still in the birdbath, 
apparently unafraid.
Defiant even. 

Perhaps just foolish. 

****
The crows live in a tall pine. 
They speak to one another.
‘Meet me at the bird bath. 
I have something for you.’
‘Meet me on the chimney, 
where we will dance.’

****
They know when you are 
looking at them. They 
remember who you are.

I decide to keep the scraggly
crooked tree. The one that 
bends toward the marsh.
Maybe in the future it 
will somewhat resemble 
a bonsai tree, imparting 
some additional Zen 
into our world. 

****
The varmint comes late at night, 
so I have never actually laid eyes on it. 
The critter digs holes in the yard.
A hole here. A hole there.
Searching. For what?

****
The marsh hens don’t like 
motorcycles. They clack furiously 
when a loud one passes nearby.
(They also don’t like the skeeter 
spray chopper because it flys low.)

Marsh hens are not great flyers
should they need to flee. But 
they are very fast runners 
and can swim underwater.

(Audubon describes an encounter with 
a mother marsh hen who charged him
while protecting her brood.)

All the birds are sensitive to sound.

When the street sweeper comes 
down the nearby highway like a 
monster, around dawn, brushes 
spinning, motor whining loudly, 
some of the birds get very edgy.  

A great blue heron takes off, 
flapping its giant wings,
complaining vociferously, 
scolding with its guttural voice.

Audubon’s depiction of the 
great blue heron is among his 
greatest. The great bird stands 
on giant yellow legs. Archangel 
like wings spring from its arched 
back. At the end of its elongated
neck is a feathered head with a 
long pointed dagger like beak 
open and ready to spear and 
devour whatever it finds in the 
marsh at its feet.

(See Audubon's Great Blue Heron - Plate 211)

****
The varmint strikes again. Digging 
up the yard in a dozen different places.

****

Our cat Holstein (like the cow, 
black and white) is a small feline 
of the tuxedo variety. Likely also 
part Siamese, he is very vocal.
He also is a formidable hunter, 
stalking and attacking almost 
any poor creature that enters 
his vicinity, even scarily large rats 
and full size squirrels. He displays 
his trophies under the house 
in the driveway: slaughtered birds, 
rodents with their heads removed,
even eviscerated snakes.

I always thought indoor cats were 
pathetic creatures but Holstein 
has convinced me that outdoor cats 
are surely a danger to wildlife.
Cats don't hunt because they're 
hungry. They hunt because 
it's a compulsion  - not to kill - 
but to hunt.

This doesn’t mean I don’t love 
you Holstein.

****
Wharf Crab. Armases cinereum.

Also called marsh crabs, these small 
crabs are dark brown or muddy 
in color. So they blend into their 
natural habitat, which is supposed 
to be the muddy marsh. But these
little crabs seem to be everywhere.
In the yard. Under the car. Under 
the house. In the house.



(We had some baby snakes 
in the house once too 
but my wife would rather 
forget about that.)

Not present in our yard but definitely 
out there: blue crab and fiddler crabs,
the guys with one really big claw they 
wave around like they’re playing a violin,
and sometimes periwinkle snails that feed 
on the cordgrass. 

Shrimp grow up in the marsh too.

All these creatures need the 
brackish water they live in to 
have the proper mix of salt 
and fresh water. Thus, they 
and the marsh itself, are
vulnerable to drought 
(more of which could be 
caused by global warming)
as less rain reduces the 
quantity of fresh water 
flowing into the marsh.

When the last big hurricane came, 
it caused a storm surge nearly eight feet 
above normal tide levels. The marsh 
rose up and sent almost two feet of water 
across our yard and into the entryway to 
our house. (Yes, it was a mess.)

Tornadic winds blew down almost 
all of the big old Pines. 

When it was over, we had a great view 
of the lighthouse.



Now there is a pine sapling popping 
up on the periphery of the marsh 
where a big mature pine once stood.
Is it a loblolly or, the more common 
here, longleaf pine?

(Google AI says it is a longleaf, 
or a slash pine…)

An arborist I am not and it’s tricky 
to tell the difference. There also are 
several types of oak, easier to tell 
apart. Adding to the confusion: what 
everybody calls a cedar is really a 
juniper. 

****

My wife has decided a paper wasp
nest in the awning above the deck
is too close for comfort. She is more 
than willing to do the extermination.

****
A rare sighting: A pair of roseate 
spoonbills swoop in and land 
beside the pond formed by 
the drainage pipe that runs 
under the nearby highway. 
At first you think you're seeing 
pink flamingos, but you're 
looking at a bird that was 
almost hunted to extinction 
by plume hunters trying to fill 
the demand for rose colored 
feathers that ended up 
adorning hats worn by high 
society ladies in the 1800s. 
The spoonbill, so named for its 
spatula like spoon shaped beak, 
indeed looks like a homely version 
of a pink flamingo. 

(See Audubon's Roseate Spoonbill - Plate 362)

Now more frequently seen in Georgia, 
they breed in mangrove swamps in Florida 
where their courtship rituals include 
bill clasping and stick exchanging.

It’s ebb tide and the spoonbills forage 
contentedly for a snack in the shallow 
water. A pair of egrets watches.

****
By late afternoon the clouds 
have darkened, the humidity is 
at saturation point. The heat index 
is somewhere in the 100 degree 
range. You pray for rain. For 
precipitation to bring relief 
from the heat. Thunder rumbles. 
Lightning arcs above the marsh.

It doesn’t rain.

Later, cicadas, reveling in the heat,
celebrate the sunset with 
their frantic mating song.

Coming Next:

Fall

Posted August 2025

Artwork: Nine-year old grandson’s school project depicting the salt marsh: Food chain of a coastal Georgia marsh: (Toy sea turtles had to stand in for hatching terrapins. The eagle has flown away.) Grade: 100