The skiff hums low as we wind through the tidal creek, the air thick with salt and the scent of pluff mud. We cut tight around each bend, chasing last light and a rising flood tide.
When we nudge the bow into the grass, everything falls quiet – except the marsh.
Fiddler crabs cling to stalks. Snails plop into the water. Mud pops and breathes like it has a…
