Photo by T Senette
Gentle rolling highways through
Northwest corner, from the toes of the Ozark foothills
To the marshy toes of the boot-shaped state,
Host to cultures with unexpected wonders.
Acres of standing pines
Singing a river song in soft breeze,
The pounding of mechanical pumps on gulf waters
Pulling oil from primordial depths,
Singing a different song than those
Who fish the salty waters and
Chank-a-chank in a different language.
Pining for the old days
Before those sounds were known.
When pelicans filled the sky and
Seagulls shouted joyful finds of
Fish schools too vast to measure,
When Grand Isle’s shoreline was
Not yet dotted with platforms,
Christmas tree lights, and natural gas torches
Reaching thirty feet above the horizon,
When marshland covered itself in
Vibrant colors of migrating flocks,
Wings slapping salty humid air,
When my father and his father before
Had only one care — that day’s catch.
Catching now the scent of pine,
I remember his face as he retold
From childhood memory how
Plentiful our cadie once was
Before Louisianians pined.
© 2016 Bessie Adams Senette