The sounds are the quiet and ever present dull roar of the waves on the reef at the mouth of the bay, the louder crash of the small waves at the sandy shore, pushing loose coral, banging together like wind chimes, tinkling as they retreat.
The sound of the palm fronds shading the terrace, clacking in the breeze as they sway, the quiet creak of the hamaca rope, secured in it’s hook as I move to and fro, to and fro. The birds in the trees twitter, call and scold, pelicans glide silently, effortlessly overhead. The sun peeks through the palm to warm my skin. Comfortable now, my book quietly falls to my chest.
My hamaca vida!