It was that magical hour where the dawning of a new day slowly stole back the marsh from the darkness of the night. Delicate rays of light slowly warmed the air, as they colored the ground in vibrant hues of gold, orange and pink.
With the brightening of the sky, misty, ghostlike tendrils began to curl back lazily from the surface of the swamp. Suspended, they lingered above the moist earth before dissipating, only to be replaced by more of the velvety fog, serpentine coils engaging in a captivating dance, twisting and writhing to a rhythm all their own.
The early morning silence was broken only by the hushed, almost inaudible whispers of the rising mist. A low hiss that seemed just barely out of hearing, but that beckoned so sweetly as to say that surely, if one listened just a little bit harder, it would speak of secrets so profound as to be almost beyond one's comprehension.
As the sky continues to lighten, the colors change, from warm pinks and oranges to pale yellows, the soft whispering seems to intensify, running together into a low buzz, as the mist seems to move of its own volition, slowly thinning, extending its reach farther from the ground.
Finally, as the heat of the day finally won over, dissipating more and more of the vapors, the swamp-speak seemed to grow more intense, a crescendo of soft, indistinguishable noise that teased at one's ears.
And then, conceding defeat, the last coil of mist disappeared, leaving behind no evidence of its passing, aside from the heavy, cloying silence that seemed to cover the marsh like a blanket.
A heartbeat passed, then two.
And then, like some unheard command had been spoken, sound washed back over the swamp, the sudden onslaught of noise near-deafening to ears still straining for one last wraith-like whisper.
