Louisiana license plates swarm Houston’s streets, and I wonder if they even have a destination.
Ancient magnolias stand on root’s end lifting their bloomed branches already withered and browning but still intact from the storm.
Voodoo swamp tours cancelled until further notice. The Cajun Queen swept out to sea. Is this really the death of the Big Easy? Southern hospitality crosses state lines, welcome to the Bayou City, now sprawling its limbs even further across the flat land. Now growing to support the bulk of its neighbors. Her waters are rising past the boiling point, higher now than we ever thought possible. It feels like the end of the world outside. Too hot to breathe, too alive not to. Super storms approach our shores, mammoth ice blocks change form, is this really the breakdown of civilization? The air is unnatural where the Gulf meets the city, millions flee in the wake of “you know who”, but our fate is far less tragic than that of the soggy swamp boot of the Deep South. Her locals are going home, through a trail of toxic mud they trudge awaiting to see the ruins of what used to be home sweet home.