Sarasota, Florida. Another Time, Another Place

 Early morning on the Gulf just after the sun eased over the horizon on the east side. No great pictures there. I'd have to be east and southeast in Daytona or Jupiter to get the brilliant yellow face of star heat. On the west coast there is the certain slant of light, but it can only crest ground level black edging the palms from the land shooting outward toward grey, shimmering Gulf waters. But I was fine. I was at the beach. I was at home in another time and place because of the sand and sea, shells and dunes, fishermen and jetty at Casey's Pass in Sarasota. It was a place, the marker said, where this gentleman, Casey, helped to rid the area of the Seminole Indians. Eventually, this marker will be brought down by some forward thinking members of the Seminole tribe. But for now, the white population dominates in Republican oblivion.

The pelicans, seabirds and egrets obliged this visitor as did the weather. It was in the 60s and a pleasant breeze sifted in from the west on my last day before a morning flight out to NYC.
 

The best part of Florida's east or west coast, the only worthwhile quality, for me, are the beaches.



 And getting away from the city suits if there are the latte, grainy beaches or lush green, yellow or browns of the mountains, reflecting the seasons. I loathe anywhere in between, for instance malls and suburbs.



The fish were running. The fishermen were out thwarted once again to the experts who dived, hovered, wheeled, plummeted for their breakfasts that they snatched and devoured before any other could tear morsels from their beaks. The other species with the rods, reels and lines scoured the waters miserably. "There's nothing out there," one grey-haired salt called to his friend who was happily jaunting along with reel and gear in tow.



His smile was wiped at the news.  Still the hovering, bombing and splashing. I laughed inside, happy that nature trumped man yet again. So often it seems, especially after incidents like the Gulf spill last spring and summer that wildlife is helpless prey in the hands and minds of the powerful moneyed classes and the scientific organizations funded by them.



 But that is a hopeless thought and I push it away from my enjoyment of the moments here. I do what I can. I pray, I join causes and I hope and believe that somehow Nature's creatures will not cave in. After all there is more that scientists, arrogant as they are, don't know, than know. Even now they are wondering at all the burgeoning knowledge they are beginning to see that is beyond them in the ocean's depths. The sea creatures, too, have their secrets unfathomable. How they continue despite our abuse of them is one of them. And they will continue. There is too little we know about life in all its forms to think otherwise.



Of course, it doesn't hurt being as careful and cautious as possible with our planet and ourselves. That is the hope I cling to. That there are enough of us on this side of the plane of existence who do love and care for life in all its forms. There are enough of us to make a difference, however small and apparently insubstantial it may seem. It is that hopeful impulse and belief that sustains me. And besides I don't think there is enough cumulative darkness inside of each one of us to conquer our combined hope for the future.  May God continue to bless and keep us.