Little wonder amidst all these comings and goings of red tide and tourists that people celebrate this mountain. People tend to
measure their own changes by what, in a world of water, stays in place.
So, while ocean drums and seaflutes crescendo/decrescendo, correct
as clocks, and autumn hangs her spattered smock on every mountain
hook around, this one hill remains a beacon, spring to winter, fair
wind to foul, of azure, indigo, robin's egg blue against the unstable sky.