Constantly.

Something I’ve noticed since we moved to Florida from New York City:  the natural world moves.

There’s a lot of activity in NYC.  People are constantly scurrying here and there, running for the subway, flagging down a cab, squeezing into an elevator.  Pedestrians and taxis and buses and cable cars and subways and ferries.  And, of course, they all move.

But the environment is fairly static.  Rectilinear.  The prevailing impression is of hulking, stationary objects hemming you in.  Great, solid constructions of stone and glass loom over you.  Other than the occasional pigeon, there’s not a lot of motion that isn’t man-made.  (Okay.  There are occasional rats on the subway tracks and roaches — but ugh!  And shiver.  We don’t dwell on those.)

But here, everything moves all the time.

I wake up in the morning, and the sunlight reflects off the creek onto the ceiling, and the whole house shimmers as the water moves.   Looking out the windows, the leaves flutter in the breeze, the Spanish Moss swings from branches that bend and sway.  A cardinal skips from the ligustrum to the sweetgum tree, and a squirrel strolls past the glass door on the patio.  Chances are there will be a butterfly on the gardenia and lizards scurrying from one place to another.

It’s an extraordinary thing to be surrounded by such constant motion.  A little vertiginous, even.

But I’m getting use to it.

It’s all constantly changing.

Full of motion and miracles.

Like life.