Life On Weedon Island is different from man—made places. In the shade, beneath a tin roof at a green wood picnic table we sit and write among the living world: live oaks, saw palms, cautious raccoons, tall, naked pines festooned with hats of pine needles flitting sparrows, quiet turtles, hurried bugs soft feathers of a breeze stroke our shoulders. above, the blue sky is cloudless this morning. Death on Weedon Island is different living and dying linked as dry yellowed leaves and grasses turn to fertile mulch for Spring blooming magnolia trees. On Weedon Island are no losses like the finality of gunshots people lost and tossed from neighborhoods plowed away soil and sand pushed under shaking condos. Here we are held as if in a hammock rocked gently by rhythms of bird call woot woot, pause, woot woot, pause. The song, the bird, the daylight beginnings and endings come and go come and go like the first and the last breath.