Miles of concrete blend with the white sand
The way tan blends into brackish waters
And out into the horizon beyond the Barriers,
Where even the tall pines fade
Into fallen, charred logs.

Across the way, Fort Maurepas
Stands tall, paying tribute to our French ancestors,
Where children race around in circles
And jump in the splash pad,
Their pigtails bouncing, bouncing

So this is the Gulf Coast. A Sunday evening
In early June, pedaling as the sun sets,
Breathing in the salty air, and
Dodging walkers, runners, and other bikers,
Still exchanging small smiles.

Behind ancient live oaks,
Lie artists who have made their mark:
O’Keefe, Ohr, Anderson, and more,
Marked by the three silver pods
Whose every curve shines light for passersby.

You feel like that; you feel like
Stopping and walking instead
To slow down time, like
Dipping your toes in the cool water, like
Dancing carefree with the pods.

You feel like pulling over and running
Down to the end of the pier, where
A couple patiently fish for trout, like
Diving in without warning nor looking back. Instead,
You keep pedaling and admire the calm of the Gulf.