The most interesting thing about South Florida is its precarious hold on civilization - a constant tug-of-war between the lawn mower and the strangling vine. I love it here in spite of this and because of this. You can never really relax, even though the Department of Tourism calls out for you to come here for that very reason. Stop mowing and edging and chopping and pulling and the jungle jumps in. If you lie still outside for very long my bet would be that something green would come out of the undergrowth and wrap you up like a spider would. Build yourself something and very soon a hurricane will come creeping and wash it all away. (I'm not kidding about that: as I type this, a potential Cat.2 hurricane is tracking our way).
This is a tiny park a few minutes from home.
It is very small, with a quarter-mile trail that circles it like a cinch belt. It's surrounded by a firehouse, an elementary school, a gated subdivision and a medical complex. But its center is a true jungle, a living reenactment of life here two hundred years ago, or, maybe, two centuries from now. A feverish little suggestion of life without people.