Camping in the Concrete Jungle: Florida

It always comes before you’d think it.

Sitting on the Intracoastal, the clouds spark in the distance and set fire to the city illuminated sky. The waters are rough tonight, the winds blowing up from the south and in from the east, creating turmoil on the surface of the pitch waters, their white caps the only thing differentiating them from their reflection above.

The stars are hidden behind the neon blues, radioactive greens, and sickly yellows of fluorescent bulbs attached to buildings that haven’t been remodeled in 50 plus years.

In what seems like a moment, those same ocean clouds have pressed their way inward to wage war against the concrete barricades, their first drops lightly falling on my hands, my face.

The storms, they always come too quickly. So easy to spot from a distance but on the doorstep much too soon, the only way to deal with them is to wait them out and pray that they pass swiftly and softly but wash away all the rubble.

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