The Outer Banks in December

Gales have replaced the tourists.
The gallery is closed; burger wrappers
blow down the streets like tumbleweeds,
past the boarded-over windows and the merely vacant.
Through the salt-filmed windows of the pancake house
I watch the people scuttle, hunched over, hugging
the buildings that break the wind.

I'm the only customer;
the owner hovers nervously near me,
offering refills on my tea.
I leave a five-dollar tip
to help feed the kids in the picture
hanging over the cash register.

Walking next to the storm-cut dunes,
I dodge the cold creeping waves;
the wind balloons my jacket like a sail.
The sails in the harbor are furled and bound,
summer sailboats sealed tight against winter.

Breakers build higher as the clouds edge in.
I abandon the beach
as sand starts to sting my eyes.

A woman is pulling shells out the dunes
where they have been uncovered,
plucking them out by their edges with her fingernails
and cradling them in the front of her sweater.

That afternoon I see her beside the outbound highway,
with a cardboard sign: "Seashells - Cheap."
I stop and buy a few of the now-clean scallops,
toss them in the backseat
next to the clinking bag
of my own still-sandy hoard.