The moon hangs low
over Pass-a-Grille Beach.
Tourists crowd the few bars
still open, their laughter
carried on a cool breeze
mixing with the hush
of gentle surf raking
across bone-white sand.
After eight this place
rolls a different vibe
as sun-burned fishermen
cast out nets, their wives
in cotton dresses
and barefoot children
lugging heavy buckets
with the night’s catch.
Beneath a full moon
the dank smell of weed
blurs a thousand stars
dotting the night sky
as the placid, black
waters of the gulf
carry my idle thoughts
beyond an empty horizon
while I stand on land’s
edge, lost in a dream.
