Under a Costa Rican Sky

The clouds speak in slow raindrops, gently cooling my bare skin in the breeze, as I lie here, on fine peppered sand grains that stick to me, even when I try to brush them off. Staring into a gray, slowly churning sky, I listen to the birds call in sweet high pitch tongues, long screams and short bursts, trills, rapid fire, and a man selling ceramic bird whistles, and another, calling "Pipas, pipas." 

And out in front comes the rushing sound of waves rolling in, meeting shore. The occasional surfer hoots. The closing up of beach umbrellas and now reggae from the beach bar as dusk approaches. All unseen, but listened to, as I lie looking heavenward, warmed, brined. I just want to lie here and listen to it all unfold.


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