PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL: The white sands lay rippled like fish-scales just where the ocean, winds, plantery motion, and whirl of the galaxy had dropped them the night before, except at intervals where the pattern of scales was interrupted. There the sands had been cleft as if by a wide, balloon tire. One might almost think motorcyclists had ridden up out of the lagoon, crossed the beach and vanished miraculously in the brush. Except when one looked closely at a tread mark in the sand, each tread bore the imprint of a single, triangular flipper to the left and right of the central mash. So closely were they placed that they looked like tire treads. They testified to the laborious journey the sea turtle had taken the night before, dragging herself over the deep mound of white sand, then digging a hole to secure her eggs and covering them, finally leaving them forever and dragging herself back to the sea. These were tasks her body was ill equipped to accomplish.
And when, at last, at the end of her night of labor, as she eased into the water, melted back to a realm where she is agile, graceful, sleek, even beautiful; did she feel fulfilled? Did she find solace? Did she take pride? What powers her inner bunny? What is the stuff we sometimes call, "instinct," and sometimes call, "spirit"? Where does it come from?