Banana palms, parrots, the orange tree, and the orchirds. From the boxy maid's apartment below a lopsiding hillside house, my view of ocean was a clearing in the trees (I measured it at 4 feet stretching my flat hands out). All the windows gave way to deep views. Eucalyptus soaked in the ocean wind and spilled easily into the lungs.
The vacuum black newfie and pebble shore tabbies kept easy company on long days I indulged in with heavy verse or sanskrit grammar. Between concentration and syllabic symphonies, I almost made the first week content knowing the ocean was that close.
By that first Friday at nightfall I was walking on the lightless asphalt road with coyotes crunching fallen eucalyptus bark hinter the slight verge. (Steady breathe keeps all peace.) On the shore beside the pier, I let the insects hop on and off, and synchronised myself to the ocean after the body slept sitting. I made it a practice, then, to walk the coast on evenings not with company, as far as the tide permitted.
Daylight scribble after morning reading: Subtle study of upanishads, Merrill continues. May I never cease being grateful that others wrote and write.
I wrapped the last night there in the top terrace's view, a Port and sweet tobacco the landlord gave in Farsi.
Home again, treading water on the internet, I read so much power I need to turn from the monitor. Staring off cross eyed into the blur, the memory of lime parrots on tall eucalyptus branches squawking above me prevails. I linger there, on the retreat's grounds again; a morning, elongated breath, moisturised, air falling in long drops.
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