Along the edges of bayou canals, shrimp boats were gearing up for the season, butterfly nets rigged and ready to drop, herons and laughing gulls flying from bank to bank. Along the shore, people young and old fished for spotted sea trout and redfish. Some stood on sinking docks, others sat in folding chairs. The noonday sun was high in a cloudless sky.
Beyond the fishing camps and the roads that lead to the camps, the bayou opened into an expanse of water and marsh, a horizontal world intersected by bleached skeletons of live oaks and the slanted white crosses of grave markers and a handful of fishing shacks accessible only by water.