Once Zo had reset the trap he stood and began poling the skiff towards the next trap.

As he passed the old gator Zo looked at him closely. It was a good twelve feet long, almost twice the length of the boat. Scars crisscrossed its body, the tip of its tail was gone and one eye had gone milky. No wonder it haunted crab traps and catfish lines.

As Zo left the hole and moved further into the swamp the trees blocked out the sun and stopped the slight breeze. The no-see-ems swarmed around his head and the yellow flies landed on exposed skin to feed.

By the end of the afternoon Zo had filled his bucket and was heading back out to the open fens and to home.

The water was brackish and the gators were no worry. His only worry now was the two legged kind. often ‘good old boys’ used the remote landings as party spots.

His old Toyota was nothing to steal, but sometimes their play turned rough. And Zo was trying to be good. He didn’t want to be part of any trouble, or attract attention. He needed to be unobtrusive.