I am thinking way too much.

Not about work of course. Into my third week here and I feel like I have done all but nothing, with all but nothing left to do. No, I am thinking about people, places, and events both past and present, and it's the happiest, saddest, loneliest, and most comforting activity a person can engage in.

Snapshots:

The poleman on the boat in Costa Rica points a dirty finger towards a double row of bumps just breaking the surface of the water - caiman - with an inaudible sigh it submerges, and the water around us flashes with a school of small fish, suddenly fleeing.

I am riding a four-year-old palomino gelding through a field of tall hay just before sunset. The light is long and flat and golden, and turns the grass into a bright waving sea. The horse flames cream and gold, and for a second I'm sitting astride the sun.

I press my face to the window at the terminal, and watch through the spreading fog of my breath as the plane pulls away from the gate. It taxis to the end of the strip, turns, and begins its run. Slowly and cumbersomely it rises into the air, carrying him away. My hands have left their silhouettes on the glass, outlined in mist, a modern cave painting.

The music is skipping but no one can hear it over the noise from the bar, so no one cares. I'm wedged into a corner next to the big Peavey speakers, which is the only reason I can tell which CD we're on by now. The poker game in front of me has been going for three hours. Not all of the players are the same. A final round of bidding ensues, and two of the four toss down their hands in disgust. The remaining two eye each other warily, fingering their cards. The call is made. He lays out his hand all at once, fanned peacock-style on the felt-topped table. A full house, sevens high. She puts down a card at a time, slowly. It only takes four. The queen of spades smiles coldly up from amongst her sisters, and the game is done.

It's bright and windy outside and there are sails on the bay, shining white against the sky. Here and there a bright splotch of color announces someone brave enough to have put up a spinnaker. The white edge to the chop promises that these poor exhilarated souls will be wet when they come in. I am content to watch from the porch swing, warmed by the arm around me and the heart I can feel beating, strong and slow.