Young Lovers

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.

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.

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.

Southern Magnolia Bloom

A Welcome Intruder

When I bought my home last year, a corner of the small yard was thick with vines, a couple large trees, and saplings from the trees. It was a mess, but for some reason I liked it despite a few cries from friends to just cut it all down. My initial rejection to cutting it down was bird’s nests within the entangled wildness, at least three. Plus, I like privacy. My lot sits at the corner of a four-way stop near downtown and across the street is a church and a park. So, what little privacy I can get, I will take. I spent the first fall and winter cleaning it out carefully, pruning instead of hacking. I quickly discovered one of the vines was an invasive vine from Kentucky, nicknamed the alligator vine. Its stem is thick and green with thorns as large and frequent as rose thorns. The roots of the vine run long under the lawn like grassroots. Another vine had gnarled roots that were smooth and gray and formed a trunk of many vines at the base. I trimmed the vine and other branches to create a type of negative space. I sculpted vines and branches so that its form was interesting and sparse, and so that I could view the large live oak and loquat trees in the distance. In addition, the cardinals and blue birds flew in and out, and at least two more nests appeared.

I didn’t give much thought to the vine I was trimming except for my focus on it becoming a piece of art. My pruning must have stimulated its growth, because this year the vine towered over the trees in this space like a lavender waterfall. The leaves were infrequent and light green, and the wisteria blooms hung like grapes. The pods of the flower were like velvet, and when I ran my hand underneath to feel their softness, they felt I was running delicate prayer beads across my palm. The sweet fragrance hovered around my front yard, and the week they were in bloom, I sat in the hammock on my front porch just to be near them.

I consider myself a hypocrite because of this gorgeous vine. I soon discovered they are an invasive species in Florida. They are not yet as invasive as Category I species that alter and choke plant communities, but they could reach this status. My plan to foster native plants in my yard will be stained by this interloper. After a week, the petals fell and now it is as if the clustered plants were never there, reminding me of the impermanence and beauty of spring.

Place Entry Eight

My last day to post about the lake has me feeling pretty sad. Spring in Florida is unpredictable and often fleeting. We’re only a few weeks into the season, and I already feel summer approaching. It’s eighty-six degrees and the breeze is slight. Signs of winter have disappeared in such a short time. Cattail grasses are no longer brown. The wind bends the long fronds into a bow northward, grasshopper green with yellow tips like palms from Palm Sunday masses.

Orange trees in groves on the West and North side of the lake are without their small orange spheres, without February-March blossoms, without fragrance, and all are green. Spring happens quickly here until all seems green. Azaleas are undressing; petals on the ground encircle the base. The coots that I’ve gotten so used to seeing are gone. They stay in Florida until April, and at mid-month they’ve already flown up north to lakes that have just melted.

Today I watch a lone dragonfly gliding across the surface of the water. Every now and again he makes a quick turn to the right or left as if he changes his mind while staying on course. He looks like a miniature, delicate helicopter without a landing pad, although flying low like a bush pilot. I feel anxious about the disappearance of the coots and the one dragonfly. I feel as if I can hear the petals of pink flowers falling. My inability to hold spring reminds me of all other things I love but can’t have near. All things that pass by or stay just beyond my reach.

The large cumulous clouds collect behind me. I notice them after the breeze picks up. They are heavy and moving in the direction of the lake. They look like summer, but they offer no rain.