The moon hangs low
over Pass-a-Grille Beach.
Tourists crowd the few
places left open to eat.
Carried on the cool breeze
the sound of gentle surf
and the dank smell
of someone smoking weed.
After eight this place
rolls a different vibe
with a few fishermen out
casting nets, their wives
and children with buckets
eager for any catch.
And with a thousand stars
dotting the night sky
over the calm, black
waters of the sea
the mostly empty beach
never disappoints
as I stand on land’s
edge, living a dream.
