A dusty town approaches
as Burt's purring engine pulls my home into their back yard.
Palm sways, overexposed, following the winding track
back down the mountain to the lake,
where I dip myself into heaven
and wonder what took me so long.

I feel obliged to sip a cool drink
on a deserted beach cove
and take obnoxiously braggy pictures for my blog,
in faintly veiled hopes of gathering a few envious remarks from strangers,
so I can feel good about my day.

When that ridiculous moment has passed,
I have to feel proud
that I have actually managed to bring myself here
on my terms.
For the rest of the day,
I plan to enjoy the scenery,
write,
photograph,
eat, shit and sleep,
much like any other day,
but today,
strangers will know about it
and it feels as hollow and pretentious as it is.

But as the dream becomes reality,
the pricky show off falls away
and genuine appreciation becomes the standard.
Life, as ordered, is beautiful and complete
in its unknowing,
undeniablely-fragile state.

After dinner, I sleep a while,
hushed by the sound of shallow tide
and carried on birdsong
to other fine lives.