As tourists visit Key West so does stormy weather. Each leaves his own detritus, whether teardrops or raindrops.
Eating a sunny morning alive a wind might stir. Dry leaves clatter attracting attention to those paying it. Cats drag indoors, birds quieten. A mass of clouds trap light beams like swords falling to earth, until lusterless. Raindrops clank on cars in elephantine tears. Branches crash-land through antique banyans, scents explode blending pines and honeysuckle and hot peppers. Tall palm trees sway jerkily, like frightened horses. The storm is a show to behold.
The end is heralded by the chirruping of birds, and the sky pulls itself up so fast you must shield your eyes.
All that remains are squalls, tail ends flipping off farewells as they travel on across the open ocean. The daydream resumes. Even when it's bad, it's so good.
Locals scarcely bother traveling out of town for vacations, "We've got it all here!" They know it.
Recently I was asked by a tourist, "I live in the North East, in the suburbs. I spend my days in a cubicle. I dream of a life like this. Tell me the truth, is it how I Imagine it?"
I knew he wanted me to say it was all a mirage so that he could more readily return to his self-imposed constrictions.
"It's paradise, Fool!" I told him, and his flinching reaction was such I thought he was going to cry.