Summer is slipping by. We leave Florida in one week.
|Manatee in the Gulf|
I've barely made note.
|Egret contemplating the sea|
This is how it is...
|Stump at Stump Pass|
...and how it goes.
|Thea on the Gulf of Mexico|
It's hard to make a beginning without a starting point. I do not have one. I start over and over from the middle of nowhere. Is it some kind of twisted snobbery to forego a beginning? A foundation? An idea? The spiral continues its twist. Over and over, Billy (Collins) starts at his window. It is not his privilege alone, something he himself makes abundantly clear. "The poets are at their windows." And I am at mine only, for now, my window is the screen porch.
I am sitting in my screen porch. It is morning. The black birds are at work on the peanuts and seeds. It is 2:26 PM in Addis Ababa. I have never been to Addis Ababa but have wondered about it since I was a child. It's storybook name did, and does, require it have narrow, winding, sand-colored, not streets, but passageways opening occasionally into markets or bazaars alive with people, animals, wares and food of every description and ablaze with color and sweltering in the shade of makeshift canopies and tents and throbbing with a cacophony of voices and music and people looking down on the scene from their tiny balconys leaning out from the surrounding sand-colored buildings and all this, childhood and Addis Ababa, far, far away from Alligator Creek and the dive-bombing black birds who have, in the time it took to go there and come back, snatched all the peanuts from under Frida Kahlo the Squirrel's memorial pineapple palm tree before the squirrels get any because they just arrived late again.
|The Visitation. |
Frida Kahlo, the Gran Ardilla
|Looking in on things.|
|Pink flamingos and palm trees|
|"Don't you listen to him, honey!"|
|It's all good|
|Man and man in the glass|
|Flea market explorer with David and Marilyn|
|The yellow-breasted Haggler|
Habitat: flea markets, yard sales, thrift shops,
rummage sales and kool-aid stands