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Updated: Aug 11, 2020

“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

Chicken Little sounds the alarm and runs around in a tizzy of helpless despair.

Sound timely? Just timely procrastination.

Actually, I started this blog when my daughter gifted me this amazing photograph taken at Hunting Beach by Delk Haigler (, before safe at home and other coronavirus measures.

Sorry Chicken Little, but I prefer this Skyfall. A Lowcountry evening, the “evening out” moment when the day stands still and then sighs into the night, faithfully followed by the next “evening out” when the night pauses and then exhales into the day. Evenings that merge, almost imperceptibly, light into dark, dark into light.

The patterns of the Low Country are the same in the High Country, the mountains of SC. I left the sea after seven years for waterfalls and lakes, shimmering heat for rainforest damp and fog. But I still hear in my sleep the loggerheads, emerging from the sea to dig in the sand, plop their eggs into the nest, sighing with their labor. The loggerhead sea turtle has imprinted on my heart.

Skyfall, the stars falling onto the sea, lighting a path for night travelers ….and night listeners.

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Updated: Jan 24, 2020

Newly-certified, I rock impatiently, demanding the moon to rise from the sea and shine the way for a loggerhead to emerge from the ocean and lay her eggs. I want my pre-dawn footprints on the sand to

intermingle with those of the night, the deer and crabs and foxes. I want to be the first one to recognize the distinctive tracks that might lead to a nest of eggs. I want to be the one who finds the eggs, who covers the nest with a protective screen, who writes the date on the sign. I have wanted this since the first time I saw a turtle volunteer on the beach (easily recognizable with backpack and cue stick) and signed up for the training.

My rocking slows to the rhythm of the breaking waves. The moon rises slowly, following her own rhythm, the brief moment when she appears to become a tunnel where anyone adventurous and quick enough might enter into another realm. The tunnel too quickly becomes an orange orb, a lantern reflecting light off the frothy waves.

No longer impatient, I breathe in the rhythm of the Low Country, rise from my chair and fall into bed, listening for the sound of turtle tracks on the sand.

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