Dispatch from Key Largo

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I went for a walk today, alone, in the hammocks on the edge of Key Largo. The smell of wet, rotting leaves wafted up, and the air was stuffy. It felt like fall up north. A dodging path, a hint of fear - something unknown here, something unseen. Black mosquitoes with stinging bites. Strange holes in the ground. Poison wood with oily, black spots. Trees reaching long fingers down to ground, sucking salty water, forming fences like wrought iron ... the murky wood, the black forest.

I pondered my life: what does it all mean? What do I want? What have I got? How can I live beyond my years? I want greatness, uniqueness. I want determination and surprise. Adventure and stamina. And yet, I want to be more still, even beyond myself. A part of something larger. Like the great dance of the shoreline.The slow retreat of a sea. The gradual building of a reef. Oh that I could be a tuft of sea weed, or a mangrove shoot. One of many countless things building a island. A real purpose. A greater good.

A fresh breeze blew in at the forest edge, and the ocean spread before me, like my life, I reckon: more out there ahead than behind. Yet, I must be sure to seize it, not lose my fire, and still find time to sit and think for days and days. Live beyond your years. Write your words and broadcast them like seed. Stay hungry, keep moving. Take the long journey home to the Piedmont. Grab your girl and your dog - they're your family, in truth. Cross the mountains, rest in the foothills. Grow a vine and make mead. Beyond that, find challenge in yourself. Turn to dust, and blow away.

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