Barataria Bay

Barataria Bay

It’s a surprise that hearing from a particular man has had such an effect on me. Nothing like this has happened during these quiet years and I don’t think I ever wondered if it would. Oh, I must have. I haven’t been dead after all. How like me to pretend, even here, that I haven’t minded about being alone. I’ve ridden awesome, foaming, reckless waves of minding. Soon enough, I’ve found my feet again. There’s been no time to flail. Until now.


There are black pelicans in the Louisiana wetlands. They don’t like to be handled, so their rescuers tie their beaks closed as they try to clean them. But I wish these wild birds could attack with their long, efficient beaks, so perfectly evolved to do what they want to do. The oil has taken, will continue to take, their birdhood. They hobble and die on the beaches of Barataria Bay . There is no stopping it now. No, I don’t think so. Don’t even want to listen to the men and women at the microphones. Today I have heavy arms and sluggish legs. Tomorrow will be worse.