Majestic blue heron,
Greek God on piling pedestal,
Great white egret on rock at jetty’s end,
Both with the patience of Job,
And I,
At apex of angle
Stand staring at my bobber,
At the edge of the bayou,
At the edge of an inlet,
On the cusp of the Gulf,
With Caribbean Seas to the horizon,
Toying with bait and fishing intentions.


Jean Lafitte’s pirates
Once plied these waters.
The remnants,
A spyglass sparkle
On sky-mirrored waves of pink and blue,
Ripples continuing
Up and into a choppy shroud of clouds.

It is sunset
And we have snuck in without permission,
As any good pirates would do.

Cautiously,
I watch as the bright red ball is
Carefully tucked away for the night.
Venus, obviously excited,
Proceeds her celestial cousins
To the twilight celebration.
Reluctance nudges me to take
One last look around.
Time and light are running out.

We had already spooked the
Adolescent alligator,
Cat-napping on a water-logged plank
Or at least he was, until we came along,
Unwelcomed tourists on a walkabout,
Come to fish in the shadow
Of his marina ghost town.

Most of the slips choked with water hyacinth,
Tin roofs ripped completely off.
Scuttled boats and knotted fishing nets,
Victims of time and too many hurricanes,
This, an elderly local comes to relate,
Curious as to our business,
More wanting to talk than anything.

She speaks of acres submerging,
Reinvented shorelines,
The ever-rising tide
Leaving Spanish moss
Pretending leaves on
Saline-choked cypress trees.

I think,
Although they still stand proud,
They now seem silent with embarrassment,
Knowing, full well, when they go,
So too goes the silt beneath our feet.

She says,
“You’ll need to pay up at the bar next time,”
Then drives away.

Croppy peck at my bait.
The mosquitoes will make
A meal of me and my traveling companion,
Before I can pull my supper
From beneath these beautifully troubled waters.

It is time to retreat.




Michael S. True
10-23-13