Poems by Ginny Lowe Connors
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Like Frozen Iguanas in Winter
Like frozen iguanas in winter, Florida has walking catfish during hurricane season
—Florida Today, August 5, 2024
by Ginny Lowe Connors
Ginny lives in the Connecticut River Valley. The name Connecticut comes to us from the Mohegan word quinetucket and the Nipmuc word kwinitekw, meaning “beside the long tidal river.” In her neighborhood Ginny can walk to and along the greenway near Trout Brook, where she watches waterfowl, occasional eagles, and other species that thrive near this quiet waterway. She has seen neither iguanas nor walking catfish there, however.
A woman on Merritt Island asks her friends,
Do you have a yard full of catfish? She’s counted 14
on her lawn and one on her welcome mat.
Last year, a winter freeze, iguanas dropping from trees,
stunned, immobile, but still breathing. And now this.
A neighbor sloshes over. Yeah, they’re walking catfish.
They watch the fish hump and wriggle toward deeper water.
They can breathe air and—sort of—walk.They’ve learned to adapt.
The woman tells him they’re thinking of moving,
but where can we go? The horizon wavers—yellow, green.
Air smells like smoke. Truth is, we’ve done this to ourselves,
the neighbor says. She shakes her head.
Like the iguanas, she’s stunned.
© Ginny Lowe Connors