Royal Poinciana trees

(Photo: which way did the storm go? Norfolk pines at the Key West Cemetery point the way)
This morning, I put the espresso on and slipped into flipflops for the trip in search of freshly written news in my driveway-- or, as often as not, in my neighbor’s driveway. My neighbor doesn’t subscribe, so I know it’s my paper over there, but I hate to walk up to his door and take it.
On the way back, sightseeing in this new yard that Wilma left us, I check the water line on the workshop that several rains have not completely washed away, and notice that the trees also have a waterline of debris, including a spotlight and a bubble blower hanging in the limbs of the mangroves several feet above the dock.

Overhead I hear a woodpecker. We have a family of them that return each year to nest in a piling. They have a little hole in the side of the piling and one of them will sit in there, head peeping out, presumably with the eggs and/or chicks inside, and the other will cruise for whatever they cruise for. They keep up a chattering conversation while the hunter looks for food.
I had missed them this year, but here they are. They were just above my head in the Alexandra palm. They glanced at me but were unconcerned that I was just a few feet from them. One was eyeing the red dates under the fronds. It’s called the Christmas palm because of those red decorations this time of year. More likely he saw an insect in the dates; he was angling for a way to light there and investigate closer.
The ficus next to the palm looks dead; the gumbo limbo is not looking lively either. The poincianas, bless their hearts, are sprouting new tender leaves – again! This is their fourth spring this year.
Poincianas are a wonderful tree, offering deep shade in summers without hurricanes and opening up to the sun in chilly northers.
It seems like just a moment or a day ago that I gathered it up as a little sprout from my friend, Reen’s yard in old town as she packed up and moved to Ramrod key.
It thrived effortlessly, first in a little clay pot and then, without a care, in the yard between the path and the sea.
It grew up with my daughter. Each year as she climbed it, they were both a little bit taller. In spring it wore a soft, frothy, light green canopy and flounced playfully in summer breezes, throwing a swirl of deep violet shade beneath it.
It didn’t mind the briny on-shore drenchings. It exercised in the wind and laughed off the salt as it held its end of a hammock.
It wore brilliant red when the sun was hot and, like my daughter, grew into a dancer’s body. You could swear it spun and jigged and kicked up its roots when you weren’t looking.
There’s something to be thankful for this week.