I just learned that “delta” means, according to Merriam-Webster, “a piece of land shaped like a triangle that is formed when a river splits into smaller rivers before it flows into the ocean.” I’m picturing a lazy river spilling into the Pacific Ocean, gentle waters turned wild.
Or a playful winter weekend with a dear pal in balmy Florida, then returning to the cold and seriousness of New York City.
I’d visited this friend many times over the years so my visit was all about catching up, being silly, chuckling at the locals who told me to wear a sweater because it gets “cold” on a boat at night.
I wish I could say that Florida’s Gulf Coast is in a river delta. That would be perfect. Even the Mississippi River Delta isn’t in Mississippi. It’s in Louisiana, although the Mississippi Delta is indeed in Mississippi. Yes, I spent waaay too much time researching American deltas.
On the way home from Tampa I did capture the sky’s transformation: the peace of a sunset and the bright lights of my New York. (This, from my seat over the wing of a Delta Airlines flight.)
From sun to dusk, darkness to home. That’s the transformation I was looking for.