I remember the Los Angeles streets where the palm trees swaying look like they're waving a Southern California goodbye. I remember their dreaming minds. White collar woman. Blue collar man. Their small truck and their big expectations. They know only that they might know nothing so, they follow the snow birds wherever they go. Snowy beards and braids. Young souls in old bodies that call the road home. They say to keep going, and that's all that they know. White collar woman. Blue collar man. Old souls in young bodies. The Joshua Trees transform to Saguaros. From Slab City to Quartz they find no rest. Through New Mexico the world is a dry desert. Highway ten seems to extend farther than forever can remember. Days pass. Hill country rolls by. A warm breeze from the East guides them to waves of peaceful waters. Sighs of relief under signs for Corpus Christi. Wake up, you weary woman. Blue collar man, wake her, please. They have reached a bay. Finally, this is where they will be. Come on down snow bird savants! Forget those traffic crowded people shouting Los Angeles dreams. Corpus Christi isn't a city like anything you've seen. This city feeds an art hungry society. Live music sounds are poured out for the thirsty. Warm weather week long welcoming hug, this is a new kind of Downtown. Green glowing buildings and haunted blue ships. Motorcycle engine humming ride in museum memories are free. Painting heals pain here. Storms cannot over power prose here. Easy East bay sunrise days become South Padre summer Sunsets. Old souls and young bodies shaking the old ways. Young souls abound, Can you see them in the crowd? A man sees palm trees waving their South Texas welcome. A woman smiles at white pagoda lined streets. Downtown in the background. Weary white collar woman. Blue collar working man. Walking the silent seawall, you can rest now. This is where you will be. You have found home in Corpus Christi.