It’s always that morning leaving New Orleans on I-10
when you see in the corner of your eye a small boat
in the bayou to your right, a breeze ruffling the surface
of the shining water & a seated fisherman casting his line
in a perfect arc across the narrow channel toward a stand
of swaying sweetgrass. You begin to salivate & start to pull over
onto the shoulder with your camera ready by your side
but an eighteen-wheeler’s right on your ass & you hesitate,
just a second, & the next second you’ve missed your chance,
that rippling carpet of diamonds & a thin strand of nylon
catching the light & defining the line between water & sky 
lost in an instant. You drive on toward Biloxi, your mouth
brackish with the brine of a picture that will stay with you
for the rest of your life, that you can never share with anyone.