I can tell you that it was late summer,

Hurricane season, and that the wind was frequently wild.

The Big Dipper hung low in the sky,

almost Touching the sailboats dotting the protected harbor;

Nestled in, as the water lapped, as they gently rocked

In the black water broken by rays of moonlight and

The playful manta rays. I can tell you that they jump,

And that the plop of the breaking water was odd and sweet

Juxtaposed with the sheets of heat lightning.

We counted: 45 seconds between light. No more. No less

Until it stopped. I sat on a pink concrete patio wall and

Looked out at the harbor, not really warm and not really still,

The tiny peeper frogs our constant companions. I caught one

Once and it sang in my cupped hands for me.

I can tell you that we sat in the shadow of Gibbs Hill Lighthouse,

Down through many winding roads, and that in that shadow

Of the lighthouse, when the beam caressed this place, we felt

A little safe among the crickets and the multicolored lizards

Who do not always scurry when you want them to.

We felt a little safe inside the beacon: a little vulnerable, too —

Unnatural here, undone amid the tropical darkness,

Breathing moisture in like memory.

I can tell you we were happy there, in the breezes,

Confusing solitude with joy. Or maybe not.