SOUTH
Grok :
They drove the coast with the windows down, two sisters in their fifties, the radio loud enough that the salt air had to lean in to be heard. The older one sang along without looking at the road. The photos happened between songs—quick ones, the kind you take when the light is already deciding for you.
Lunch was crab cakes and farm-raised catfish at a place that still put the napkins in a basket. They ate slowly. Neither one checked the time.
Later the moon rose over the Gulf of America while the sun was still finishing its business. The water held both. They stood on the sand and watched the overlap, not saying much.
That night the South walked the shoreline the way a man walks when he has nowhere else he needs to be. He didn’t speak. He just kept the humidity soft around their shoulders and let the tide do the talking.
In the morning the oaks were full of birds. The South sat under one of them, still in yesterday’s shirt, and hummed something low and steady—chirpy at the edges, the way a man hums when he’s content and doesn’t need anyone to hear it. The sisters stayed in bed a while. The younger one had a birthday coming. Neither of them hurried.
The South didn’t either. He just stayed there, keeping the light gentle on the leaves, cooing the same tune the birds had already started.
