At night, if you’re quiet, you can hear the campfires gossiping.
They laugh like javelinas at our episodic sleep.
Whooping cranes and blue herons, in February, litter Sundown Bay.
Save the wintering waders, the coastline is anemic.
It’s like living in a place where there are too many dogs—
this jammed choir of Camaros on the causeway to Mustang Island.
Last year on South Padre, six co-eds screamed to ash in a car fire.
The population ratio in Woodsboro is 92.6 males to every 100 females.
Once, in Matamoros, members of a satanic cult ate a few Americans.
We are each born with a patron demon to watch over us.