The tidal flats of the Chesapeake Bay formed the canvas of my youth. My brother and I spent hours exploring these transient mud surfaces and their underlying biotic communities. The river went out every day leaving the exposed mud heaving in the humid air. Steeling our nostrils against the pungent stench of seaweed boiling in the sun, we staggered out across the slick brown skin. Avoiding our exploring toes, fiddler crabs scuttled jerkily in all directions. Clay grabbed at our feet as we trod through the muck. At low tide, earth met water some fifty yards away from shore. After reaching that place, we lowered our sticks. Backs to the receding water, we turned to wander back across the smooth mud, leaving a trail of calligraphic marks. The wood left a clean incised line in the clay which would hold up for hours until the river returned.