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Prose

Marschta: The Marsch

The Marschta Marsh

This morning I heard anguished cries for help from the marsh, but when I got there the voice had gone silent. I stood watching for a few minutes, holding my breath, listening. But the water remained still. Only a lone bird was heard far away from the treeline. I took a picture before I went home.

Text: Ellinor Kall | Photo: Fred Andersson