A nervous roseate spoonbill. (Taken from our car)
But, things don't always smell like roses...
I was reading Santana Garcia's link on the Seeds of Inspiration while on vacation this month. (What a great name she has by the way) And suddenly, I had a hilarious, creepy and somewhat disturbing thought. My foul smelling seed of inspiration for the week was found in a ditch.
We had just experienced a spicy, pine cone strewn walk through the palmettos and mossy oak hammock of Crew Trails. This peaceful walking sanctuary borders the calm meander known as Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in southern Florida. Inspiring right? Well, yes and no. The air at Crew is saturated with the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. As soon as you open your car door, the olfactory memory smacks you in the face. It always smells like that there. We were the first and only people to walk at Crew that morning. Being the first victim...oops...I mean hiker, usually means that you'll be entering a maze of spider webs hanging aimlessly and prolifically across the trail. It's almost spooky to arrive at sunrise, while the dew drops hang like luminous pearls, by the millions, from every mummified plant. This year we were prepared. We brought a trekking pole to clear the webs. But a midnight rain storm had cleared them all away. In fact, the whole Corkscrew Sanctuary is wetter than it's been since the 50's. So everything was popping with herbaceous life and vibrant color.
So did I find my writing mojo at Crew? Nope. We left the trail head feeling inspired, but nothing that would help me with the writer's block that was plaguing chapter 21. We turned left out of the empty parking lot and headed to our temporary home. I even added a bucket list bird sighting to my ever increasing score. A flock of roseate spoonbills. I had never seen them in the wild before. They were cautiously feeding in the ditch. So was it them? Nope. A little further down the road my husband nonchalantly remarked that the vulture he'd seen earlier that morning, was still devouring an unlucky carcass. Where? You guessed it. The ditch. He was gorging himself on, what my husband referred to as, "A melted pile of fur." Gross! But what a visual. That's it! That remark solved my dilemma. How can that be? What kind of disgusting novel am I writing?
a) V is for vulture
b) 101 things to do with road kill
c) Ditch tigers and their feathered friends
d) Road kill: Good to the last maggot (sorry)
The answer is e) None of the above.
Writing isn't all roseate spoonbills, jasmine, sugar and spice. Sometimes, it's vultures.
Be sure to stop by Sharon's Paws Create for more photos from the peaceful Crew Trails in Florida.