Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,


And never stops—at all,



 

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard,


And sore must be the storm


That could abash the little bird


That kept so many warm,



 

I've heard it in the chillest land—


And on the strangest sea;


Yet, never, in extremity,


It asked a crumb—of me.

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This beautiful green chameleon is the first creature I captured with my new camera, a present from G who is leaving Antigua early today to shoot a job in the Philippines, Vietnam and Indonesia. Although my new toy hardly makes up for losing my better half for a couple of weeks, it will prove a welcome distraction. The food here is not much to write home about, though we did enjoy dinner on the beach last night, including a delicious chowder made with local shrimp, lobster, clams and fish. Earlier in the day we'd seen a haul of a couple of big, square-headed, glistening yellow mahi mahi, but there was none of the simple and fresh ceviche you might hope for. Still, I can't complain, when the days consist of sunning, napping, reading, hammocking and sipping piña coladas. (Note to self: must perfect this drink at home this summer without that noxious, soapy Coco Lopez). And the nights consist of family dinners, rum-&-tonics with extra lime, moon-gazing, more reading and the beautiful music of tree frogs.
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