Each morning I have gone down to the dock on the marsh at sunrise and he is there. First, he is perched far out over the creek at the end of a long palm tree leaning over against the yellow and orange sun coming up, then on the left bank already fishing and then on the bridge to the dock itself. He is there, completely visible to me, gray and blue, haunting in his faithfulness on nearly every hike. Sometimes I hear his wings and sometimes I know he is there and but I do not see him. I see him in my mind's eye.
On this last day, I walk the Spanish Mount Trail with Michael and his family. The children are transformed here as are we all. They tell us that they are no longer speaking human. They have found a secret place down a hidden path onto a dried pluff mud shore along the marsh. Now they scamper down the trail, wearing their coon skin caps, dragging palm fronds behind them and chortling in secret wild tongues.
We have all heard the wild language of the birds, the animals, the marsh and the sea. One day, we too, may learn to speak it.
We are restored.
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