There's a cool breeze and the water is flowing from head springs to ocean. It is overcast and perfectly perfect. The osprey whistles, a heron creaks as she lands in the mangroves.
This has been paradise.
Our landlord here offered us another night's stay which is generous and lovely but oh...we need to get back.
But it's so hard, trying to adjust consciousness back to that life where instead of white ibis and ospreys there are cardinals and chickens. Instead of palms and water there are towering live oaks. Where instead of "what do you want to do today?" there are chores and work and commitments and yes, grandson kisses and babies to prepare for and to get ready to welcome.
But right this second here I sit and the river is speaking softly in liquid syllables as it flows under the dock and around the pilings and there are so many versions of heaven and this, without doubt, is one of mine and it is real unless I made it up from the mind of a soul-hungry child and if I did, I did a real good job.