Today I drive to St. Mark’s Wildlife Refuge. Less than an hour from Tallahassee, it’s a beautiful contrast to the capitol’s paved streets and people that break my heart and give me comfort all at once. Driving through the gates, live oaks and Spanish moss give way to marshes and palm trees in kind of a tropical prairie. The high grasses and glittering ponds sigh around me.
Ducks abound, swimming in groups across the glassy morning water as blue herons sweep down from above, squawking at any duck that dares to come too close. It is oddly similar to the marshes in Wheaton (and all over the Chicago suburbs) and the prairies of early spring at Meadowbrook in Champaign; instead, ochre saw grass and spiky palm fronds made up my view, with some live oaks and tall pines providing nesting spots for vultures and the odd eagle. At St. Mark's lighthouse runs a trail between one marshy lake and the wide, calm Gulf that goes on eternally. Along the stony trail, cacti patiently wait for water or my oblivious foot with their passive armor glinting in the east-rising sun. The wind blows swiftly through my sweatshirt to remind me: it is not yet summer, girl. All day I go on, walking from pond to pond, going the wrong way along trails but never getting lost, watching waterfowl and vultures. I eat an intensely green avocado on Mosi's grainy rye bread and am thankful I brought my travel salt. I must always remember to bring my travel salt.
I find my first crocodile; him sitting still as stone; me fidgeting while waiting for him to catch his prey. The very moments I turn away, I hear him crash maniacally into the water; I whip around to catch his thrashing tail disappear in a swirl of bubbles.
The whole morning is restful and precious, sunny and warm enough. Baby boy kicks around in me, making me smile to think, soon we’ll all feed the ducks together. So now, after a day spent in the sun with my waterfowl company, I feel drowsily satisfied as I lick a fig popsicle, not even dripping once.
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