Walking slowly on delicate legs, the bird that the Cajuns call the bec croche peered into the murky salt shallows. As it moved, looking for a late supper, it barely left a footprint in the black bank of quaking peat that would bog down any heavier creature. Even the ragged, salt-reddened raccoons that often padded their way in and out of these briny marshes, looking for trapped minnows or a rambling crab, wouldn’t venture out onto these flats at low tide.
A man would be up to his thighs in no time.
Crawfish Mountain by Ken Wells