Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Fort De Soto Beach and Bird Migratory
North Beach
Under a 4:00 O’clock sun, the gold-tipped waves on green gulf waters give me hope. Pelicans are grey-brown like gargoyles. They glide gracefully with precision inches from the water’s surface, their large bodies not yet weighted by oiled wings.
Warning signs hang on wooden posts to separate the conservation area for migrating birds from the public beach -- an attempt to keep beachgoers away, along with their red plastic cups, banana yellow buckets, and large blue coolers. The soft white sand is unaltered; sea oats grow on dunes that haven’t been flattened by flip-flop feet.
A choreographed flock of black skimmers take off in unison; ink-black wings contrast their underside that is white like marshmallow. They return to the sand as gracefully as their take off and abruptly stand in silence and stillness at the shore’s edge. Their red and black beaks all face downward as if the birds are observing a moment of silence. They’re cloaked with black wings, looking like small funeral attendants, but when in flight, their undersides are white like doves against blue sky.
The gulf looks light green and pure. Slow water ripples the sand, and broken shells, not oil blobs, scatter across fine, innocent sand.
Under a 4:00 O’clock sun, the gold-tipped waves on green gulf waters give me hope. Pelicans are grey-brown like gargoyles. They glide gracefully with precision inches from the water’s surface, their large bodies not yet weighted by oiled wings.
Warning signs hang on wooden posts to separate the conservation area for migrating birds from the public beach -- an attempt to keep beachgoers away, along with their red plastic cups, banana yellow buckets, and large blue coolers. The soft white sand is unaltered; sea oats grow on dunes that haven’t been flattened by flip-flop feet.
A choreographed flock of black skimmers take off in unison; ink-black wings contrast their underside that is white like marshmallow. They return to the sand as gracefully as their take off and abruptly stand in silence and stillness at the shore’s edge. Their red and black beaks all face downward as if the birds are observing a moment of silence. They’re cloaked with black wings, looking like small funeral attendants, but when in flight, their undersides are white like doves against blue sky.
The gulf looks light green and pure. Slow water ripples the sand, and broken shells, not oil blobs, scatter across fine, innocent sand.
On the Way Back from the Sandbar
The sun is two hours from setting. The gulf water at the sandbar is light blue and the evening sun sprinkles diamonds across the surface. One sandy path cuts through the long walk to the beach that is filled with wild plants native to beach. I search the crowd of small flowers, wiry grasses and sea grapes. A small wildflower catches my eye, its pods are soft and the color of lips. Like small bells they swing lightly in the breeze. The ocean breeze causes the thick, unstructured dune flowers to bend eastward. One lone black skimmer soars across the musical field. I could stay here all night.
The crickets begin to chirp at the coming of night. I want to shake my sandy towel clean and lay down in my bathing suit to be lulled to sleep by waves and wind. Suddenly the small tent seems like too much shelter. I don’t want to close myself in. I don’t want to stop feeling the current of my blood like the flow of the water. I don’t want to wash the saltiness off my body.
The crickets begin to chirp at the coming of night. I want to shake my sandy towel clean and lay down in my bathing suit to be lulled to sleep by waves and wind. Suddenly the small tent seems like too much shelter. I don’t want to close myself in. I don’t want to stop feeling the current of my blood like the flow of the water. I don’t want to wash the saltiness off my body.
Night
The Gulf beach at night is black and blue. Crickets play sad repetitive songs for the sleepless. A waxing moon glares through palm fronds of tall trees, its eye ever aware like mine. I hear something playing in the water; an anonymous kerplunk in the indigo night.
The laughter of a father’s daughter echoes into the night, giggles in rhythmic time after her dad’s voice. Their duet reminds me of the years of longing for my own absent father.
Small sounds won’t penetrate the silence: June bugs tapping at the lantern and the wind shaking browned palms like pom-poms.
I’m interrogated by stars.
The solitude I once loved laughs at me here.
The sky cries without thunder or lightning, gently against my tent, and never-ending.
I wrap myself up with what I’ve lost. With my back against the night, I close my eyes over an awakened mind.
The laughter of a father’s daughter echoes into the night, giggles in rhythmic time after her dad’s voice. Their duet reminds me of the years of longing for my own absent father.
Small sounds won’t penetrate the silence: June bugs tapping at the lantern and the wind shaking browned palms like pom-poms.
I’m interrogated by stars.
The solitude I once loved laughs at me here.
The sky cries without thunder or lightning, gently against my tent, and never-ending.
I wrap myself up with what I’ve lost. With my back against the night, I close my eyes over an awakened mind.
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