Craig LaBorde Photography

The Heron at Dawn

I woke at 3:30 a.m., driven by a whisper—some call it madness, but I call it calling. Coffee brewed like a ritual, steam curling into the early silence. Two hours on winding Louisiana roads led me to the western edge of Lake Palourde. The world was still asleep, the sky ink-black, save for the faintest glow eastward.

Shouldering my camera gear, I walked to the water's edge. The air hugged me, warm and damp, laced with the ghost of a distant woodfire. No wind, no bugs—just the hum of awakening outboard motors far across the lake. Fishermen chasing trophies. Me? I hunted light.

The horizon grew, orange bleeding into the clouds. No purples, no fiery reds—just orange. It wasn't the canvas I imagined, yet still beautiful in its quiet way. I lingered longer than usual, wrapped in the hush of morning, until—wings.

A beat of silence broken by the soft thunder of feathers. I froze. A Great Blue Heron, regal and silent, landed atop a cypress tree before me. No invitation needed—he joined me in reverence. Slowly, I raised my lens, the shutter whispering thanks. Four frames, then he soared, gliding to the shallows for breakfast.

I stayed a moment more. The journey complete, I returned home, weary but fulfilled. Later, on my screen, there he was—my wild companion, immortalized in the golden light. That picture now hangs on my wall, a reminder: beauty waits for those who listen, and sometimes, you're not alone when you greet the dawn.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

Rigging Beauty!

The fishing trip was never meant to be a pilgrimage. Yet something inside me insisted—bring the camera.
Evening unraveled slowly across Bayou Lafourche, and Dulac softened under the sinking sun. Shrimp boats lined the boardwalk like weary kings after a long Mardi Gras parade, their rigging etched against the bleeding sky. The air shimmered with the scent of fresh shrimp, the low murmur of tired voices, the sigh of water against old hulls. A breeze, light as a mother's hand, brushed my cheek, carrying with it the deep, wet breath of the marsh.
The world was on fire, and I was unarmed.
I ran—through the fishing camp, up the narrow stairs, back again with the camera pounding against my ribs like a second heart. Breathless, I stood among the boats, lifted the lens, and drank in the dying light.
Click, click, click.
Sunset threaded itself through ropes and masts, stitching gold into weathered wood and salt-stained steel.
And in that golden hour, the boats began to speak—not in words, but in questions:
How many storms had they seen claw at the decks?
How many prayers had been whispered into roaring winds?
How many hands had mended these nets, bled on these rails, sung into the night?
Each click of the shutter tried to catch the answers, but they slipped through like mist.
The light surrendered to twilight. I lowered the camera, let the darkness bloom around me, and listened to the harbor breathe. I stood there until the mosquitoes drove me inside, back to the waiting hush of the camp.
The photograph still hangs on my wall—a quiet relic of a night when the old boats, the restless bayou, and the bruised sky told me stories no one else could hear.
www.craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

Sun Cage!

I woke up before the alarm, stirred by the quiet pull of the Gulf just across the street. My wife was still sleeping soundly—it was my birthday weekend after all, and we’d come to Longbeach, Mississippi, to relax. But I couldn't resist the lure of the sunrise. I dressed in silence, slung my camera gear over my shoulder, grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the lobby, and stepped out into the brisk March morning.

The wind off the Gulf was sharper than I’d expected, ruffling my hair and making me wish I’d grabbed a jacket. Still, the smell of saltwater and the soft rush of surf grounded me—so clean, so pure. Low tide had exposed the sandbars, and the shallows teemed with seagulls pacing and diving, searching for breakfast.

I wandered until I found my frame. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow when I noticed the fishing pier’s gazebo ahead. I moved slightly—yes, just there—the rising sun would soon line up perfectly within it. As the golden orb peeked over the horizon, it hovered right inside the gazebo’s frame, caged for just a breath. I captured it—just in time. Seconds later, it had already risen beyond the frame, and the moment was gone.

I lingered in the cold, fingers numbing as I caught a few more shots of gulls and surf, then finally retreated back across Hwy 90, warming my hands with a second coffee. Quietly slipping into our hotel room, I settled by the window and uploaded the shots. And there it was—that one image. The sun, glowing inside the gazebo like a firefly in a jar.

I smiled. Beauty, it seems, is always waiting—if you simply show up.
www.craiglabordephotos.etsy.com