The Cattails sway in the breeze, long stems creaking, croaking, clacking. They sound like old bones knocking, tongues snapping on teeth; tsking. Sawgrass sighs at him, a sound like mourning-- or a warning.
He listens to them all. And sometimes, in the hours before dawn, when the first fingers of light scratch the sky-- he thinks he understands. It isn't much, but he understands.