Wednesday, July 25, 2012


I feed the seagulls like a tourist...
 I had to run away from home for a while. A few years, actually. I thought the mountains were calling me. I thought I yearned for seasons. I was wrong. I'm home now.

You know you're home when the smells almost make you weep. For some, it might be mom's cookies, a lover's aftershave. For me it is dead fish. Low tide on the salt flats, the fiddlers foraging, the mangroves airing their tangled roots. Iodine and ozone and imminent rain... the stranded unfortunates on whom seagulls feast... pelican guano, seaweed, red tide, baking in a just-shy-of-tropical sun.

I've passed through my Appalachian tribulations, and emerge a born-again Floridian.

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