Black and grey fine line tattoo of bare cypress trees rising from still water and a low island on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cypress swamp landscape on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A row of bare cypress trees stands in shallow water, with a low wooded island on the left and reflections of the trunks below. The linework is fine and the trunks and branches are built up with delicate shading, giving depth and a misty, realistic feel. The design is entirely black and grey and sits centred across the forearm against pale skin.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The water came up the week my father stopped speaking to the Corps, and by August the old road into Bellwether Lake was a line of gravel under six inches of brown. I rowed the flat-bottomed boat out past the drowned cypress and counted trunks the way he had taught me, one per breath, until the count stopped matching the map in his tin box.

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The island on the left was the only dry thing for a mile. Its name had worn off the chart, but everyone local called it Dorrie's Hump, after a woman who once kept goats there and swore the cypress knees rang like bells when you knocked them with an oar. I knocked one. It gave back a dull wooden thud, nothing more, and I felt foolish and glad that nobody could see me being foolish.

On the far side the trees stood in their own reflections, so that every trunk went down twice, once into the sky and once into the black. My father used to say a swamp was just a forest that had agreed to keep its roots in company. I had taken that for one of his sayings. Out there, with the reflections holding the trees upright like two halves of the same argument, I started to think he had meant it literally.

I stayed until the light went flat and the herons stopped pretending to be reeds. Then I wrote the count in the margin of his map, eighty-one trunks standing, and pushed the boat back toward the gravel, which by morning would be gone.

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