Baffin Bay: Decomposition at Drum Point

After dinner at King's Inn (pan-roasted drum,
avocado & tomato salad, fries, beer)
we hit the back roads of Kleberg County
in search of a route down to Drum Point:
long straight level roads slashing through
fallow fields, or fields of sorghum.
A malnourished white horse, his ribs
just beneath a dusty white hide;
one black dog at the side of the road,
sitting, silent.

And suddenly we were there, at Baffin Bay,
where three men on the shore cast lures
into choppy water. We drove and drove
down a narrowing spit, bumped and bounced
in and out of ruts, a mile or two in 97 degree heat,
fish leaping at either side of us in the silver sun.
When the road tapered to an end, we stepped
from the car into a hot wind, sand stinging our ankles.

Litter everywhere: mostly beer bottles, pop cans,
plastic bags, broken glass. Impossible to fling
my sandals and go barefoot without risking
a slash, although I wanted nothing more
than to feel that hot sand on my feet, the warm
water. The wind did not relent -- heat flowed
in and around me, passed through every cell,
rendered me hollow.

I left my scales on the beach.