Florida summer nights are magical. So's the little town I live in. Palm trees line the streets. Spanish architechture silhouettes against indigo blue. And sunsets are long, and pink, ever fading back into that indigo. The moon is waxing, I think, and it's bright. Rain threatens perpetually, keeping the air thick, stirring up breezes, pushing the Atlantic ocean's waves back and forth. Monday night I found a beautiful new-to-me marsh with a friend. Fiddler crabs scuttling from our steps, the pier's wood old, worn, salty, and the green so green, the sky so lush in the golden summer hours of early evening. Then the rain came later, almost silently. I looked into the streetlight, and the water fell in an almost static sort of rythm. These are pictures from my beautiful world, in my beautiful, quiet little town, where I hear frogs and cicadas at night. Where white cranes and storks fly overhead. Where everything. Is everything.


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