This seemed like a good a moment to take a break and enjoy the day.

I decided to take a walk up Ram Head, the southern most tip of the island of St. John. To some this rocky mound that stretches on a long neck from the body of the island looks like the broad brow and curling horns of a ram. I don’t really see the ram, but I do see this thrusting spit of dome and cliff to be as bold as one.

The trail begins near a salt pond that the trade wind works to a lather.

From the salt pond I walked along a crunchy, coral-rubble path that skirts a pretty curve of bay. Soon the trail rose over a dry, sunny ridge…

that is home to barrel cactus and wild orchids.

At the crest of the ridge, Ram Head came into view. Without warning, a slab of cloud slid under the sun.

And in minutes the brilliant colors of the evening where extinguished and replaced with pewter. It was an afternoon for abrupt events.

As I proceeded up the trail, squalls swept in from the North, but each skirted Ram Head, which sat in its own patch of light.

On the crown of Ram Head, I saw the distant rain travel across the sea like a wet sable brush passing over fresh paper.

The tip of Ram Head…

makes a hasty drop to the sea, where the surf breaks over the rocks and swells the pools only to make a sloshing retreat.

Looking up and out to the west where I had hoped to celebrate the end of my visit to the island with a glitzy, sunset spectacle, there was only a cloudy sky and a sober stretch of silvery sea. I was disappointed.

But I soon noticed that the subtlety of the scene was just as beautiful as a dazzling sunset, and considering the suddenness of the other afternoon events, pleasantly uneventful.

It was cool last night as I stood in the bathroom debating my fate with a scorpion at my feet. But the morning broke clear with a distant view of the volcano. After breakfast the heat and the humidity mixed like yeast and flour into a dense, redolent lump. It sat all day under a floral towel in a gray bowl at the back of the stove to rise. Late in the day, the swelling burst with waves of electricity, sound and water, propelling a pair of buzzards to their stinking nest at the root of a six-story tree where I spent the day painting.

Soon a stranger arrived with a brown sloth hanging from her neckline. Middle- aged, short, and voluptuous, she wore thickly drawn lines around pretty eyes that did not blink as she peppered me with urgent comments and questions. Since I could not understand her, she pantomimed a request to paint her portrait by posing like Betty Boop, one hand on a shifting hip, the other behind her swiveling head. The sloth held on with as much fervor as a sloth can muster, swinging from the neckline, exposing increasing amounts of motherly breast.

Most of the people here are Quichua, the dominant group of indigenous people in this part of Ecuador. Curious about native culture and history, I asked about the Quichua and other indigenous rain forest groups like the Huaorani, who by legend are fierce and aloof headhunters. To answer my questions about traditional life, Freddy, a Quichua, offered a CD of Mel Gibson’s, “Apocalypto”, which stars, he says, the Hoarani, who filmed on location nearby.

Insects are eating the ears of the Great Dane who lives here. The tips are gone.

There is a bird nearby whose call is the “submarine” prompt on a Macintosh computer.

An enormous tree flowers profusely on tiny stalks which shoot directly from the trunk. It’s disconcerting, but reassuring to see sexy, fragrant growth sprouting from the thickened core and horny surface instead of the youthful tips.

That’s it. Those are the unnecessary details of the day, rehearsed for the telling so you’ll know I love you.