The moon is overhead and filling every night, so bright the world can't sleep, but rolls from dusk to dawn, trees and human objects limned by its smiling sight; into its stillness a single person sails, his water the blue-lit road and ship his own two heels. Solitude the hull's name, it move at peace, guided by the hunter who stands off in the winter sky, by the bright dog at his heel, and the call of the surf that whispers beyond a wave or two of homes. The ship is carried from home to harbor, and at the harbor pause, to wait a while as moon wheels on the tide, to sigh, and there abide.

~

I'm south of Tampa for a week, recuperating from weeks of work, both personal and commercial. My brother and his wife rented a place down here, to get away themselves, then suffered (invited is more right) my parents to share the second room, then me to freeload on the coach. Tonight I'll sleep in the screened-on porch, with the songs of crickets and surf playing at my ears and hopefully influencing my dreams.

Earlier, we prepared a command-performance meal: instead of wasting money at the restaurants, we spent it at the markets, buying fresh salmon and greens, fruits and breads. Here's the menu, first hand, and happily ingested: Salmon spiced with salt and garlic, lemon zest and a shower of tarragon, blacked on the skin side, then flipped and seared so the seasonings gained a touch of fire and crispness, and finally served on a platter as the centerpiece; beside the fish, the vegetable was summer squash pan-fired with leeks and sliced red pepper; fruits on the side, sliced carambola (star-fruit) and bosc pair sprinkled with lemon juice; for a salad, mixed greens with pan-roasted Georgia pecans and sunflower seeds, pear filets and crumbled gorgonzola cheese, with a garlic-orange vinaigrette; and finally, a grocery-baked sesame french that proved so fresh and good we simply sliced and ate with whipped butter. To top it off, a glass of French Beaujolais. Ahh.

The essence of living must take on an air of the divine – and so, in words, becomes less tangible at times. At least when my pen writes it. However, the same beauty pervades every bit of our days, and if we learn to decorate — with music, love-making, the art of food, the nourishment of art, and satisfaction with our work well done — then we allow Divine into our daily diet, and live and later die well-fed.

My mind wanders as my eyes begin to close. The moon still calling, but not into the road: instead, to bed. Let that busy sky spin silent over me (and you).