Last Day of Hurricane Season
It is November 30th, the last day of hurricane season, and it is a warm night. I wander down towards the water's edge, being pulled by the opportunity, being pulled by the good bye, I see the lights from across water's way, but, they are full timers, and I am a part timer, they have no need to grasp the waning of the full moon or the stillness of the night sky and the quietness of the air, for, they can come out tomorrow night, and I can not.
I pause to listen to the river's movement and I close my eyes on the listening of the sensory gift of a lone fish jumping. I watch the clouds joining their merger of a blanket of cotton candy all hued with gray and white. I look about at the frozen motion of the water, so strange, so still, so warm for this time of year, or maybe not, maybe it is stunning to me for I have never been here before on the eve of December and the ending of hurricane season, I have been elsewhere, bustling and busy with nothing that is so dramatic and necessary as this evening here.
I mark my footsteps and my passing of age to age with the seasons on this shore line, here are the seasons of my life and my growth and my thoughts, and my parents and grandparents, my pain and my happiness, my reflections and all else are on this shore line. I think how one man or woman can be so drawn to a certain place, be it sky scrapers and pent houses, be it towering majestic mountains covered with snowy peaks, be it vast and desert like tumble weeks that go farther than the eye can see, be it noise and exhaust but the thrill of a place that never sleeps...but, oh, the wonderful lucky star.
And for me, and if no one else knows the lucky star, it is sufficient in itself for me. I want to wander again, against my judgement for the night is deep into time of slumber, but the pull comes again, calling me, telling me, you can hug the river now, and listen to its voice, and again at day's break, but as if the first time and the last time, I shall say goodbye in the morn's sunrise.
A path was designed and I did notice at the time, I was destined and in twined by those before me, and I stood as a child in the shadow mirroring the one standing before me. I was floating out there like a crab trap in the Bay, unclaimed but waiting, and destiny would find me my home and set my anchor and tie my ropes and pull me in, wrapping me up with the salty air and spray and leading me back to the river's edge to claim my destiny and my key to feeling the heavens above with their sailors sky and the waves beneath my barefoot steps of knowing a piece of life that is sufficient in itself, however simple and undescribed by most or never understood but to only a few.