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The Florida Georgia Line

The tide recedes slowly,

exposing marsh mud better left below the surface.

A heron dips his thing legs into the cool squelch, poised,

waiting for silversides to flash in the fading light.

A fog rolls in from the coast, settling over waving reeds with a hush

It feels like November; the cedars needles are rusting on their branches,

dropping to reveal bare bones.

The gray sky is reflected in the still water,

covering the great bird in obscurity.

We drive over the darkening scene, the scent of salty marsh

following us for several miles.

I believe I will always leave a part of me in Florida-

wherever I end up settling, a city, a forest, a mountain range,

a part of me will always reside by the coast

watching the breeze ruffle the shifting tides.

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