Gulf Drive. Beach Blvd. Gulf of Mexico Drive. Tangerine Avenue. 

Names of the streets here. Lined with palms, with old oaks hanging Spanish miss for a canopy, with hibiscus and bougainvillea. 

It still feels exotic.  It still feels like I’m visiting, and I’ll have to go back to the chilly autumn and frigid winters of New England. 

Every morning, every night, for short but intense moments, the sky turns into glowing pinks, oranges and golds. Every day, without fail. So far. 

Old fishermen cast their lines into the water from the fishing pier. Sometimes fish jump and splash. Sometimes seabirds come to rest on the rails next to the poles. Not sure if the fishermen even care if they catch anything, though I suppose some do. Methinks they are here like me, to watch the day unfold from the beginning. 

At dusk, many people come here, or so I’ve been told. I have not. The morning is my time. To watch the shadows lift, to smell the salt air, to listen to the sea birds, to watch the boats swing lazily on their hooks, to witness the short but glorious moments of absolute beauty when the sun makes its ascent over the horizon. 

Sunrise to the west over St. Pete Beach

Sunrise to the north over my little town. 

To think about my life, where it’s been, where it’s going and to give thanks. So grateful my life turned out this way. 

Love and light.