Dreaming On

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on. And our little lives are rounded with a sleep."

I return to desde Desdemona often. The island is most beautiful now in the hurricane season: humid, windy, smelling of coming rain. A wet jewel, and very precious. When it's overcast, I lie in a hammock, read Alejo Carpentier's "The Last Steps," and eat fat cherries. I spit the pits over the railing into the sea. I delight in my good fortune. I am grateful for being such stuff as dreams are made on.