For The Ninth Ward of New Orleans

5:30 a.m.

Three or four people on top of a rooftop flooded to the eves sit atop their worldly possessions, repining somewhere silty and coroded beneath the water. An old varnished dresser full of family photos floats past curling and cracking in the riptide. They're shivering in the bible-black predawn, waiting for the sun to break.

My friend calls from a pay phone in Texas from the white truck he evacuated in and says he's not stopping until he hits California.