for a morning at Holly Bay

We drive east,
chasing the edge of the storm,
the promise of stillness before the sky breaks.

Two paths diverge—
he on wheels, I on foot—
parallel in presence,
alone, together.

The creek side trail hums beneath my steps,
a language of leaf and lichen,
of frogs echoing low,
of turtles slipping silently into water.

The yellow-crowned night heron appears—
first, as sunlight dances through tree branches,
its slender frame poised beside
a pipe’s silver spill—
running water,
movement contained,
yet flowing.

The air shifts.
Rain, like whispered confession, begins.
Still, I walk.
Unbothered.
The second heron watches me from the shadows
as droplets kiss my arms
like a baptism.

A young rabbit waits just off the trail,
its breath steady despite my nearness,
eyes meeting mine
with a trust that feels borrowed from another life.
Along the creek,
plains coreopsis gather in soft flares of gold,
buttercups nod like tiny lanterns,
and the purple-blue of heal-all
hides in quiet medicine.
Here and there,
scarlet sage burns in miniature flames,
and herbertia flashes its violet bloom—
ephemeral,
like memory just before waking.

Further along, a third heron lifts
at my nearing steps,
wings slicing the rain’s hush,
a messenger departing
before I can read the full letter.

Under the canopy now,
a corridor of trees holds me close.
Honeysuckle breathes sweetness.
Wild onion stirs the ancient kitchen of memory.
The leaves speak in the green dialect of belonging.

I touch bark like a friend’s shoulder.
Count trees like stars in a sky I can reach—
live oaks, mulberries, hackberry,
a coast live oak standing its ground.
The Chinese tallow near a house
with open arms:
a gate pulled wide to the wild,
tree of life etched in iron,
and humans who choose
to witness, not wall out.

A pile of eight apples—
red, wet, rain-kissed—
tempts with their gleam.
A gift, perhaps, for deer
or spirits.
I leave them,
but they linger on my tongue,
sweet as restraint.

Then, the beetle—
a quiet passenger on my shoulder—
a reminder that I am never alone.

The sky deepens its voice.
Rain drums louder.
A chickadee calls,
another answers.
Their joy defiant.
I am soaked and smiling.

The final heron arrives—
in the open field,
watching me
as I make my way
through the falling sky
to the warmth of our truck.
It does not flee.
It sees.

We drive home wet,
but full.
Speaking not just of weather,
but of weathering—
how love, real love,
shares the weight of the rain
and the light that follows.