Waterspout

But what then is a waterspout if not
just a tornado, keeping to itself,
drifting, silent over the churning hot
Gulf? I see it now, just beyond the shelf,
where the waters go from brown to sapphire
and the oil rigs twinkle like fallen stars,
beyond the reef. They’ll think I’m a liar
when I tell them all traffic stopped, the cars
sat on the seawall, transfixed by the spout
with drivers and passengers, mouths agape,
some of them even choosing to get out
to watch the gyre of the waterscape.
And then, suddenly, and much to the crowd’s
relief, it receded into the clouds.

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