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Sunday Hymn

Sunday Hymn

I am grateful for this downpour
That jabbers in the birdbath
And clangs inside the drainpipe
Samba agogô outside my door.

I am grateful for this thunder crashing,
Booming one-two-three-four fast,
And this heaven-cracking lightning,
Dance-floor-strobe-light flashing.

I am grateful for this wife of mine
Ensconced in the couch facing me
Engrossed in fifteen across,
Sanguinary or sanguinity.

I am grateful for this old dog
Who curled up at my feet,
Seeking safety there from the tempest
Then slipping back to sleep.

I am grateful for these Sunday funnies,
My Kindle’s New York Times,
And iced coffee I sip occasionally
On this peacefully stormy Sabbath of mine.

Freedom’s Price

FreedomsPrice

Surrendering to the schooner’s inability to tack against the increasing strength of the northeast wind in the narrow channel, the captain told his first mate to turnabout just south of Porpoise Point and return to St. Augustine’s harbor. Jacques, overhearing the order, glass of wine in hand and chatting amiably with fellow passengers, silently began his calculations for jumping ship.

Note from the St. Augustine Waterfront

BoatinMorningTwilight for card-can print any size

Since moving to this town by the sea, I have become attracted to sights of sailboats moored in calm harbor waters during the minute or two before night disappears into the advancing day. At those times, I am filled with a quiet certainty that passing fancies of mine involving some derring-do are both possible and advisable. For good or bad, such notions invariably fade as the light strengthens.