|I feed the seagulls like a tourist...|
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.