There were roosters along the shore, kicking up foam. We made them crowns with hibiscus flowers and they picked at our rice and plantains, still warm on chipped white plates. They did not drink our chicory coffee. Watercolors in the pale morning light, strips of paint along the horizon fading into a cloudless white sky, listening to the neighbor play her trombone, the notes vibrating with deep gratitude to this little hamlet by the sea, an ode to the beauty of the island, the potluck dinners, card games, glasses of gin. The nights in the hammocks, sleeping like babes in wonderland, a flock of snowbirds, soft sounds of settling in before sleep like a dark beach glittering with golden sand, and then, opening our eyes, the crack of light on a brand new day.