I prefer the beach in summer, vacated
of snowbird and tourist. Most of the condos
masked under storm shutters; and the sunrise
too early for those who remain; and the surf is flat
enough to see whitebait and glass minnow
dimple the surface, tarpon rolling, the blow
of bottlenose dolphin as they surface; and osprey
circling in sheer shapes, hunting while the sun
lifts, liquid, like yolk out of horizon’s shell,
a green flash like a docklight on the other side
of the ocean, like the gleam in Lazarus' eyes;
and pilchards scatter like skipping stones; and the sea
lacquers across the foreheads of jack crevalle
as they push through the surface into the bait;
and finger mullet simmer, fraught under
the swoop-shadow of pelicans; and shells
tinkle in the subtle surf curling the shore;
and ghost crabs shuffle ragged across the wave
retreat; and morning glories edge the sea oats.
Especially on Sundays. I think of church
folk leaving mass in frock coats
and fragrant dresses, sweltering to boiling
Benz and BMW: gloss
buckling, like blisters under the wax.
J.D. McGee teaches high school literature in South Florida. His poems have
appeared or are forthcoming in New Ohio Review, Cider Press Review, Southern Quarterly, and White Wall Review, among others. The recipient of several national awards and honors, he will begin the MFA program in Creative Writing at Florida Atlantic University in Fall 2026.